


Taro

by fassenheimr (Azraelique)



Category: DC Cinematic Universe, DCU, DCU (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, F/M, Gen, How Do I Tag, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, M/M, Not Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice Compliant, Not Iron Man 3 Compliant, POV Multiple, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Swearing, Thor: The Dark World Compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-06-05 01:57:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6684628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azraelique/pseuds/fassenheimr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vigilantes AU</p><p>After SHIELD fell, all supers are given the status of terrorist by NATO -supported by the Vigilante Watch Act and the UN.</p><p>Tony doesn't have Iron Man anymore. Natasha is running for her life, authorities and enemies alike looking for her now that her identity is known. If Thor is on Earth, it is unknown. Steve and Clint run away to Europe, planning to prove the UN that supers do more good than bad. Banner went off the radar right after the Battle of New York.</p><p>In the US, vigilantes are tracked by an uncanny duo: FBI Special Agent Bruce Wayne, and Agent Bilal Asselah, a young French working for Interpol.</p><p>Clark Kent, despite not belonging to this universe, is dragged in this manhunt, trying as best as he can to adjust to a world that isn't his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Three Years

**Author's Note:**

> I've been thinking for a while about posting it... Now it's done, haha there's no turning back hahaha... Ahahh... Ahh...
> 
> Anyway hi! If you like this and want to stay with us, you're going for a long ride! I'm writing Chapter 11 as I'm posting this, and lemme tell you this is definitely not going to be short.
> 
> If you're here for the ship, beware! This is going to take a very long time!
> 
> Thoughts, comments, critics (be gentle pwease) are very welcome!
> 
> (you can probably realize by now how awkward it is to me to write notes. It is *very* awkward.)

Vigilante /ˌvɪdʒɪˈlanti/

_noun_

A member of a self-appointed group of citizens who undertake law enforcement in their community without legal authority, typically because the legal agencies are thought to be inadequate.

 

1

 

 

**3 years**

 

 

 

‘ _Well, Catherine, I am actually near Theodore Roosevelt Island where the S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters are, or should I say were, because it looks like some kind of helicarrier crashed into the Triskelion..._ ’

 

‘ _Breaking news, it appears all of S.H.I.E.L.D's files are being released on the web as we are speaking..’_

 

 

*

 

 

AVENGERS TOWER, NEW YORK - APRIL 4, 2014

 

‘Romanoff speaking.’

 

‘The hell did you do, Nat!’

 

‘You know I had no choice.’

 

‘Everything! Everything has been released! My brother's address is on the Internet!’

 

‘Not everything, Clint.’

 

‘What do you mean “not everything”? I'm not in the moods for one of your games, Widow, so spit it out.’

 

‘I haven't released everything. I didn't have much time, but some things should stay hidden.’

 

‘What then?’

 

‘Budapest. The Index, other stuffs. I got help from a friend.’

 

‘Cap didn't say anything about that when he called Tony.’

 

‘What Steve doesn't know won't hurt him.’

 

‘You're an idiot. You're a fucking idiot, Tasha.’

 

‘I know.’

 

*

 

 

‘ _They have no jurisdiction!’_

‘… _Thousands of billions of dollars of property damage...’_

‘ _My mum was in her flat! But that alien doesn't care! She suffocated because his hammer destroyed her building!’_

‘ _She's a Russian spy! We should have never trusted her!’_

‘ _May I remind you that this man we're talking about was not so long ago a merchant of death whose weapons killed hundreds of refugees in..’_

‘ _Senator Kelly is widely known for his controversial words about Captain America being an impostor and...’_

‘ _I don't think this Council was enough supervision for that shady agency..’_

‘ _Can you assure me that if tomorrow the Hulk gets angry I will be perfectly safe? Because I don't think Harlem..’_

‘ _SHIELD demonstrates again that us citizens are still kept in the dark!’_

‘ _They should be put in jail!’_

‘ _Some of them aren't human. They're **monsters**.’_

 

 

*

 

 

AVENGERS TOWER, NEW YORK CITY - FEBRUARY 2015

 

‘ _We tend to forget pretty quickly, Capsicle. I mean, not trying to piss you off or anything, but Neo-Nazi organizations in Europe are rising.’_

 

‘ _We saved New York. You almost died!’_

 

‘ _Like I said. Short-term memory is a 21 st Century-thing.’_

 

 

*

 

 

AVENGERS TOWER, NEW YORK CITY - MARCH 2015

 

‘ _Tony, it's going to be official. The UN will approve of the decision.’_

 

‘ _Listen Rhodey, I've got SI getting me the best lawyers on the planet, they won't be able to touch a single hair of any of us—’_

 

‘ _Your lawyers won't be able to help you for what's coming, and you know it. It's too late for you, and you know even **I** can't do a single thing. I mean, hell, they unleashed those dogs at the Black Widow, so please, think about them. It's not too late for Steve and Clint. They're still free.’_

 

‘ _I can still protect them, the Tower is still safe, goddammit, it's not even 'mine only' anymore, it's **theirs** too!’_

 

‘ _I hate to say that to you.. I really do but— Tony, you're wrong. Don't make them fall with you.’_

 

 

*

 

LE HAVRE, NORMANDIE, FRANCE – MAY 4, 2015

 

Tony tried. He really did. He took them in, shielded them from the world with a barrier made of the best lawyers of every states — _and countries, Steve. This shitload is international_ — and yet, it hadn't been enough.

 

In the end, they took away his armors — _they CAN'T take J away from me, Pepper, please, don't let them do it, Pepper, Pepper,_ _ **please**_ —, his pride, and most of all, the safe haven he built for them.

 

Clint made them cross the Atlantic on a container ship, hid in cargoes for three weeks, with two backpacks, one full of cash and the other with two sets of spare clothes for each and two sets of hearing aids for Clint, surviving with the food stocks. Clint told him that at least, this would be easier than being boat-people.

When Steve set foot in le Port du Havre, he realized when was the last time he had been in France. His stomach churned.

 

They set camp into a dingy motel near the port, booking their room under fake names — he chose Grant Carter, and Clint went by Clide Barrow —, mostly inhabited by port workers and temps, their room being no more bigger than a closet.

 

‘We won't stay here for long’ had told him Clint, as if he already didn't know. It's better than the camp settings he was used to in wartime. He could do this.

 

He saw a calendar with the days crossed at the reception desk. When he realized what day today was, he started laughing, ruefully, and his smile was bitter when Clint looked up at him from the single chair in the room.

Three years. It was the anniversary. Today marked the day of aliens invading New York.

His eyes became watery, and he turned his head down, and staring at his hand, he started singing.

«  _Joyeux Anniversaire, les Vengeurs_ ».

 

*

 

 

There's a special place in Hell for people who made Captain America cry — Clint was sure of it, and it was probably below the rapists.

Clint would rather not go to Hell. He thought his place was already waiting for him down below, but maybe in a less hellish —'hellish', ha— circle.

So when he saw Rogers' eyes getting watery, he panicked. Not visibly, mind you, he's a spy, and a damn good one at that. But in his list of Cool Stuffs He Needed To See Before Dying, seeing Captain Freedom cry was definitely _not_ in it.

 

He didn't care about the crying, Real Men Cry, but more because of why he did.

 

He forgot. He forgot today was the anniversary of Loki-is-a-huge-back.

 

And today was also their first day on the run in Europe. May the Fourth was definitely on his shit-list; forget about Star Wars.

 

He looked up at the room they were in. He already checked it, twice, but a third time would never hurt. Two single beds, one with Cap sitting on, a window giving view to a dirty greyish wall he would probably touch if he put his arm outside — Ah, la France! What a sight! —, a small table that passed for a desk with a corded phone on it, the wooden chair where his ass was currently sitting on, and three doors: one for the exit, one for the closet, and the other one leading to a bathroom — containing a shower with a removable shower head, and his all-time favorite: a squat toilet.

 

Cap was singing. He thought it was a birthday song, but he wasn't sure: French wasn't his forte. Nat was the one speaking French. Though, his Italian kicked ass. He stood up, startling the other man. Steve looked at him questioningly.

 

‘I need to see a friend. I'll be back in two hours.’

 

‘A friend?’

 

‘We need new IDs. If we're going to hide, better be smart. And having no IDs won't help.’

 

Cap nodded but didn't answer. When Clint put his jacket on and headed to the door, he saw the faraway look in the other's eyes.

When he closed the door, and thought he was at a safe distance from the room, he sat on the corridor, his back at the wall, and let himself panic.

 

 

*

 

WAYNE MANOR, NEW YORK CITY – 1986

 

‘ _I think they wouldn't have wanted me to become a business magnate.’_

‘ _Well, Sir your father was a surgeon at the Presbyterian, Master Bruce.’_

‘ _And he probably would still be... I think I know what I want to do. In the future.’_

‘ _And what that would be, young sir?’_

‘ _A federal agent. Alfred, I think I want to become a federal agent.’_

 

*

 

FEDERAL PLAZA, NEW YORK CITY - MAY 4, 2015

 

‘Wayne! Get your ass here!’

 

‘Chief?’

 

‘There's someone who's going to come in this office and offer you a job. And you're going to accept it.’

 

‘I like it when you're being all mysterious, chief.’

 

‘Shut your mouth, Wayne. They'll tell you it's an inter-agency program. They'll tell you you're lucky.’

 

‘Can I know what the job is about?’

 

‘It's about catching the bad guys. Special Agent Wayne, you're the man who's going to shake the supers-tree.’

 

*

 

LE HAVRE, NORMANDIE, FRANCE – MAY 4, 2015

 

« Je recherche Corinne. Vous l'auriez pas vu ? »

Clint thought the sentence meant he was looking for someone named Corinne, but actually, he wasn't too sure.

Natasha had a contact in the city, one Rémy LeBeau — a compulsive gambler who knew everyone in the criminal business in town — who gave her fake IDs when she needed to lay low after tough missions.

The guy was a hard man to find. The only thing he knew was that he had to go to a bar near the train station, and tell the bartender this exact sentence.

 

What to do after, he didn't know. Clint hated not knowing what to do. It gave him the heebie-jeebies.

The bartender though, seemed to. She raised an eyebrow at him, wrote something on a piece of paper and gave it to him. When Clint took the note and looked at her questioningly, she just huffed and started serving other customers. Uh. French people are really sweet.

He gulped down the beer he ordered — Belgian, eh, good stuff — and went out.

When he looked at the note, there was only a number on it. Well, time to buy some burner.

 

 

*

 

 

« Ouais, c'est qui ? »

No way, he was definitely not going to be able to handle an entire conversation in French. Ugh. Why couldn't they go to Italy?

 

‘Uh, I'm— I mean, _je suis_ —’

 

‘Ah, American. Talk. Who're you?’

 

Was that a Cajun accent?

 

‘I'm looking for someone named Rémy.’

 

‘And who's asking for him?’

 

Yeah, definitely Cajun.

 

‘I'm a friend of Natalie.’

 

‘I know many women, cher.’

 

He could almost hear the guy smile.

 

‘Red-head, most of the time. She likes sunsets, long walks on the beach, and deadly spiders.’

 

A pause at the other end of the line.

 

‘Ah! Yes, Natalie. I heard she was traveling around the world these days.’

 

‘You could say that. So, you know Rémy?’

 

‘Meet me at the Coyote Café in two hours. Rue de Mafars.’

 

‘Will do.’

 

 

*

 

 

So basically, Clint was heading to a café he didn't know, meeting someone he didn't know, and all of this unarmed — a bowie knife strapped to his calf, and two butterfly knives don't count. Sounded like the beginning of a Great Plan.

 

In the cab, he asked the driver to left him a couple of streets away. Or at least he hoped so. He truly hoped the driver understood him. Italy sounded so good right now.

 

The man left him on the side of a street, gave him directions to the café and asked him what he thought an insanely huge amount of money for the course. _Ce quartier craint un peu, vous savez_. Yeah, this neighborhood looked like a shithole, he didn't need to be told that, he could see it.

 

The phone told him he had an hour and a half left before the meeting. Time to do some recon.

 

 

*

 

CLICHY-SOUS-BOIS, ÎLE-DE-FRANCE, FRANCE - 2010

 

_« You, a cop? After what the fuckers did to Aarif! You, cocksucker! »_

 

They wouldn't understand. Like they wouldn't understand why he chose to put on a mask.

Bilal was a ghetto-boy. And no one cared about those folks. Being a cop, he became a traitor to the hood.

Being a vigilante, he became a threat to the nation.

But the mask had no identity, it's not Bilal, not an Arab, not a kid from the streets. The mask was a symbol.

 

The day, he arrested petty thieves and violent husbands, alcoholics and murderers.

The night, he caught those who escape the system.  
  


 

*

 

Two days before the three-year anniversary of the Battle of New York, Bilal was on a plane, heading right to the Big Apple.

 

He's working at Interpol, these days. The same kid who, ten years ago, saw his neighborhood set on fire by his friends, the cops beating at them, and his best friend killed in front of a burning police station, has grown a lot.

He thought about her mentor. She used every favors she had at the agency to make Bilal get on this plane.

 _« You're going to catch vigilantes in America_ ». He saw the irony in the statement. He thought she saw it too. She knew. He didn't know how, but he was sure she knew about his late-night activities. He didn't know why she helped him either, but he wasn't going to complain.

 

He could already imagine the rumors in the agency — _« they sent a rookie across the Atlantic; I don't know how he did it, but I bet he's someone's boy-toy »_ — and let himself smile. Better being the Rookie than Nightrunner. The irony wasn't lost on him; a vigilante tracking other vigilantes. Bilal Asselah a.k.a Nightrunner, Traitor to his neighborhood, Traitor to his Nation, and Traitor to his partners-in-crime.

 

It's the British who gave him the name. The French press made no mentions of a vigilante, running wild in the streets of Paris by night; it's a too American notion for their audience.

It's The Sun who started it all; making their cover about him, 'A NIGHTRUNNER IN PARIS'.

The name stuck. Even in France, it stuck in its English form. After all, they've stopped translating everything these last years, assuming everyone knew English nowadays.

 

In high school, Bilal had sucked at English.

 

*

 

LE HAVRE, NORMANDIE, FRANCE – MAY 4, 2015

 

The café, which turned out to be a Mexican restaurant, looked even shittier than the whole neighborhood.

If Clint didn't know better, he'd thought this was the best place for finding mobsters in an action movie. Well, maybe it was. A two-story building that looked in ruin apart from the sign which depicted a cartoonish coyote, right next to an empty building in an equal state. Funnily, the hairdresser salon on its left looked brand new. ' _Coiffeur Messieurs_ ', eh, maybe he'd cut his hair after going to the restaurant. Who knew.

 

When he entered the place, it looked empty, apart from three men sitting at the counter. He could see two guns from the one on the far left-side, two knives and another gun for the guy in the middle, and a gun for the one on the right. The bartender took one look at him and pointed him to the stairs.

 

Upstairs it was then.

 

The room was bared, a round table in the center. One man sitting, two standing by his sides. He didn't need to look for the guns.

 

Boss-dude gestured for him to sit, after one of the gorillas searched him. Eh, the idiot missed one butterfly. When Big Dude One stood back besides Boss-dude returning to his half lethargic stare, he sat the closest he could to the window. One never knew.

 

‘I guess you're Rémy.’

 

‘And you, Natalie's friend.’

 

‘That'd be me.’

 

The guy smirked. A compulsive gambler? Bullshit. The guy was definitely more than that.

 

‘And what do you want from me, Natalie's friend? You can speak freely.’

 

Like that sounded reassuring.

 

‘I heard you were the guy to talk to when one is looking for a fresh start.’

 

‘That depends. What do you mean by that?’

 

‘I'm not super fond of my name these days.’

 

LeBeau stayed silent for a while, looking at him. Weird dude. There was definitely something odd with his eyes, Clint couldn't exactly pinpoint what though.

 

‘I see. And what exactly do you have to offer?’

 

‘10K5. But I need two names.’

 

‘For you?’

 

‘One for a friend.’

 

Shit. The smile disappeared.

 

‘I don't know your friend, and my mother always told me to be wary of strangers.’

 

The two gorillas were starting to stir from their slumber. Shit, shit, shit.

 

‘You could meet him if you want.’

 

 _Fuck_. Why had he blurted that? No way he was going to drag Steve into this—

 

‘I think I will need to. I think he should join us, how is that?’

 

He had no choice. But damn if he didn't like that. _Some skilled spy you are, Barton_.

 

‘I'm going outside, I need to make a call.’

 

The smile was back. And with that, two Desert Eagle .50 pointed right at him. _Fucker_.

 

‘Or you can make the call here, cher.’

 

 

*

 

FEDERAL PLAZA, NEW YORK – MAY 4, 2015

 

‘Great. They sent me a rookie.’

 

This was going to be a disaster. The FBI Agent Bilal was supposed to work with didn't seem pleased by their partnership.

 

‘My name is Bilal Asselah.’

 

‘Special Agent Bruce Wayne. Well, kiddo, our job will consist of catching the bad guys. But I guess you've already been briefed.’

 

‘Yes.’

 

‘Well, then. We're starting within the city's limit. It's no Avengers, but still. This one is a number. Ever heard of the Devil of Hell's Kitchen?’

 

*

 

NYPD 15th PRECINCT, NEW YORK CITY – MAY 4, 2015

 

The kid didn't talk much. Bruce wasn't even sure he understood all he's been said.

Bruce would admit he was a bit disappointed. When they offered him the job, he thought he would be working with the real deal; or at least not a _kid_. He turned 41 three days ago. He was baby-sitting. Clearly, his boss was trying to teach him a lesson.

 

 _You're a good agent, Wayne, but sometimes it's like you're getting off on being an asshole_.

 

The officer he was talking with was a fucking idiot. Officially, a case about Hell's Kitchen Vigilante has been opened. In reality? They had _nothing_. No suspects. No persons of interest. Nothing.

 

This day was getting better and better.

 

When he made his way out of the precinct — with gratuitous comments about what _good police work was supposed to be_ — he saw the kid smiling secretly. So, his “partner” was an annoying mute. Fantastic.

 

‘What's so funny, kid?’

 

‘You, the Americans — no finesse at all.’

 

‘The guy was an idiot. Served him well for making me waste my time.’

 

The kid snorted.

 

‘I found something interesting.’ This made Bruce stop in his tracks.

 

‘Well? Care to share with the class?’

 

‘Iron Man is still living in his house, yes?’

 

‘Stark's Tower. Or the Avengers'. He's on house arrest. Guess all supers aren't equal in front of the law.’

 

‘And the other Avengers?’

 

‘The Black Widow is on the run. Last known location: Washington DC, a year ago. Since that, she vanished into thin air. The last known location of Captain America and Hawkeye was the Tower, three weeks ago. They too also vanished. It's like they're all Houdinis.’

 

The kid nodded from time to time, looking as if he had trouble understanding all the words. _They couldn't even give me one speaking English_.

 

‘The Hulk— Well, he disappeared right after the alien invasion. Probably the best course of action. And Thor ran away—’

 

‘—to Asgard, yeah.’

 

Right. Of course the kid knew. Thor collected INTERPOL notices like one would baseball cards; Blue, Green, Purple, the UN Specials; which meant the guy was wanted for criminal activity, crimes against humanity, war crimes, criminal offences and imminent threats to public safety — this was what happened when people decided you and your brother were the same deal — and he didn't have a Red Notice pinned on his head because they wouldn't know _where_ to extradite him; and letting him go back to Asgard would be honest-to-God giving him a pat on the back and a beer with that.

 

Served him right to save London, Bruce thought — but would never said out loud.

 

‘Anyway, what's that got to do with our vigilante?’

 

‘Oh, nothing. Was just curious.’

 

_What the —_

 

‘Talk. I ain't got all day.’

 

When Bruce snapped at him, the kid looked sharply at him, and for a moment, his easy smile was gone, replaced by a cold stare and a hard face.

 

Uh, interesting.

 

But by the time Bruce thought of a reply, the smile was back in place.

 

‘One policeman tells me there was an incident, four months ago. Nobody want to talk about it.’

 

‘But he did to you.’

 

Maybe the kid wasn't so bad.

 

‘Yes. Nobody remember it well. But they all remember someone. Jessica Jones.’

 

*

 

That night, when Bruce was back in his apartment, he sat on the loveseat, a glass of bourbon in hand, and started reading the kid's file.

 

Bilal Asselah, born in January 16, 1989 in Montfermeil, Île-de-France. Dual-citizenship, he was a known French-Algerian Sunni Muslim. Top of his class in the Police Academy. Flawless police work. Started working for Interpol at the age of 25.

 

 _Spent most of his life in Clichy-sous-Bois_.

 _Saw his best friend die during the 2005 French riots_.

 

Well, not your typical French boy, then.

 

This might've explained why Bruce didn't like the kid: because he was hiding something. Though not what Bruce would've thought.

 

 _People tend to misjudge others when they come from a bad neighborhood. Though that doesn't always mean they're going to be bad persons_.

 

He remembered Selina saying that to him once back when she was still—

 

He stopped his train of thoughts and decided he liked the kid better when he looked coldly at him; and so would try to get on his nerves every time he would've the possibility.

 

After all, Bruce was very good at being an asshole.

 

*

 

 

The flat Bilal was going to live in for the foreseeable future wasn't as horrible as he had previously thought. Mostly bared, a bit small but still decent. He sat on the bed, thinking about what Thompson, the American's boss told him when he gave him Wayne's files. “Tell Delphine we're even now.” Bilal had taken the files a weary look on his face, but understood why her mentor did it anyway — knowing your partner gave you an advantage. When he stood ready to get out of Thompson's office, the guy said to him something that had kept nabbing at him ever since.

“Wayne's a certifiable asshole. You won't like him. He won't like you. If he didn't have a son, I'd think the guy wouldn't be able to feel for another human being. But he's good, _real damn good_ , and if you can tolerate him, he'll be the best you can have.”

Bilal sighed. The American certainly seemed like an asshole. Not ready yet to read his files — it still felt intrusive, and he knew Wayne probably did the same, but that didn't mean Bilal would be fine with doing that himself — he took his cellphone out of his pocket and started typing a number.

 

« Allo ?

\- M'man, it's me.

\- Bilal ? What's going on ? Why are you calling so early ?

\- Early ? Oh. It's night-time here. Haven't noticed. Sorry, Maman.

\- Don't worry. Have you tried taking a cab yet ? Tata said you need to take a photo of the fountain.

\- The fountain ?

\- From Friends, yes. You know she loves the show. Anyway. Are you alright ?

\- Oui. Don't worry about me. It's just...

\- What is it, mon cœur ?

\- I don't think I'm doing something good here ; I don't feel like one of the good guys. »

 

*

 

LE HAVRE, NORMANDIE, FRANCE – MAY 4, 2015

 

There was something oddly comforting about a room with no view.

 

The last time Steve went into France, the view wasn't as beautiful as folks used to depict it.

The first time he saw the body of a dead kid, it was in France.

The first time he started feeling like a dancing monkey, it was in France — and the last in Italy.

 

It wasn't that Steve didn't like France, how could he, he'd never properly seen it. There was even a time when he had wanted to go to Marseilles, after the war, and see what Dernier used to call «  _la cité phocéenne_  ». Now, with his friend no longer in this world, he didn't feel like it. He would rather not visit another grave.

 

He tried to keep his hands busy to think about something else. He went into the bathroom to shave the scratchy beard he got ever since they left America. When he finished, the phone started ringing.

« Allo ?

\- Monsieur Carter ? You speak French ?

\- Oui, un peu.

\- Un Monsieur Barrow demande à vous parler. Vous prenez l'appel ? »

 

One Barrow wanted to talk to him? Who was— oh, yeah. Clint.

« Oui, passez-le moi s'il vous plaît.

\- Très bien. »

 

Since when did Clint had a phone?

 

‘Grant. It's Clyde.’

 

‘Yeah. I kinda figured. Whose phone is it?’

 

‘Burner. Had to, my friend is a hard man to find.’

 

Steve didn't know what to say.

 

‘Anyway, I need you to come over and meet me. My friend says he likes to meet new people. It's quite the party here. Big one.’

 

_My friend likes to know who he has business with. They are armed._

 

‘Sounds fun. Where do you want us to meet?’

 

‘Corner of Rue de Mafars et Rue de la Barre. Buddy of mine know the way from there.’

 

‘Alright. I'll meet you asap.’

 

‘Oh, and Grant?’

 

‘Yeah?’

 

‘Take my backpack. But leave the scarf, it's not cold.’

 

Ending the call, Steve asked the reception to fetch him a cab. He tried not to think about his shield left in New York.

He took the backpack containing all the cash they had, took off half of the euro bills and put them under the mattress. He headed downstairs.

 

 

*

 

 

FEDERAL PLAZA, NEW YORK CITY - MAY 5, 2015

 

‘You can live like Tony Stark.’

 

 _Good morning to you too, kid_. Bruce groaned, burying his nose deeper into his cup of coffee. At least, when he looked up, the kid didn't seem like a morning person either: there were god-awful bags under his eyes. Still probably suffering from jet-lag. Bruce didn't feel like answering to him. He knew what the kid meant with this, but that didn't mean he would answer him.

 

‘And you are FBI. Not living on an island with your son.’

 

 _Well, looked like someone did their homework too last night_. He stared at him, eyebrows raised up, and took a sip of his mug. The kid was smiling his secret smile again. This time, it reached his eyes.

 

‘If you want to know me, you ask. If you don't, be more subtle.’

 

That was a whole level of assholery, coming from someone who did search on Bruce yesterday. Sure, Bruce did too. But he didn't barge in this morning commenting about it.

 

The kid sighed, tiredly. Not even two days with Bruce and he already knew the deal. Good.

 

‘I became a cop because of Aarif. I don't need you to understand.’

 

At this, Bruce put his mug on the table. He looked closely at the man standing in front of his office desk. The smile was still there. It still reached his eyes.

But the eyes — there was nothing friendly in his eyes. They told another story.

 

Bruce saw the same fierce fury he saw yesterday piercing through them. And then it hit him, he knew why he liked that look. It's the same Dick used to have when he saw him for the first time. He raised an eyebrow and felt himself smile.

 

‘Sure, kid. But I do.’

 

 


	2. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter Clark and Natasha!  
> I'm posting one and two together, so you'll have the two different sides: and just so you know, every chapter will be following this principle!

One night, Clark fell asleep on his couch, watching a rerun of The Real Housewives of Atlanta —or was it? He's too tired to focus on the screen anyway. The morning after, with no reason whatsoever, he woke up in a port in Spain, fully naked, with a police officer trying to get him check into the station. When he said he's American, coming from Metropolis, and to check his driving license in the database, the man gave him an odd look.

 

Later, he'd learn that Metropolis didn't exist.

 

That Clark Kent didn't exist.

 

He'd think this was all a bad joke, and would start getting angry when he'd look up at the TV screen mounted on the suspended ceiling — the news reporter talking too quickly for him to understand it well, but what he'd see would make his head spin.

New York. A giant hole in the sky, and aliens — freaking aliens — descending upon it. He'd never seen this before.

And yet, the headline would tell him that today would be the three-year anniversary of the Batalla de Nueva York, with some footage of a red-and-gold army robot redirecting a nuclear missile towards the space hole.

 

He'd never seen this before. And couldn't for the life of him remember this happening three years ago.

 

And Metropolis didn't exist.

 

He'd faint. For maybe the first time in his life Clark would faint, falling from his chair in front of the officer desk, and after that he would remember that luckily, the blanket they gave him to stay decent stayed tightly around his body.

 

*

 

 

Natasha always liked Indonesia. It wasn't as easy for her to fit in than it would be in Europe, but she had always liked the challenge. She passed easily for a thirty-something trying to get away from her occidental habits. She could be trying to help against poverty. Perhaps even evangelizing the ones she met on her way.

 

In any case, people didn't tend to notice her too much. And if they did, it wasn't a problem — Natasha had always been good at taking care of things in the most discreet ways.

 

A year ago, Natasha swore an oath on the Bible to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. _So, if you want to arrest me, arrest me. You'll know where to find me_.

 

Well. Sometimes, truth was not the best course of action. Sometimes, truth meant giving away secrets that you would have rather preferred to stay secret. Sometimes, truth obliged you to run, away from everything you could have perhaps called a home and friends, in order to protect them.

 

Natasha tried not to think about Clint. She tried not to think about Steve, the famously known Captain Rogers. She didn't allow herself to think about the fact that they disappeared three weeks ago, right before their names had been put on an international arrest warrant.

 

But what Natasha couldn't stop herself from thinking, was the fact that today marked the three-year anniversary of New York. Three years since Natasha had stopped being _just_ a spy.

 

While looking at kids waiting in line to go get checked by a doctor, she felt lost for the first time in three years, not knowing if she should continue or not.

 

 

 

*

 

 

DÉNIA, PROVINCIA DE ALICANTE, SPAIN – MAY 4, 2015

 

Clark might have been many things, but he wasn't an idiot.

 

Fainting in a police station wasn't a smart move — and he didn't let himself think about what caused it — but he knew how to get away from tricky situations. His Spanish was a bit rusty, but with charm and finesse, he got his way out of the station. Just a tourist who partied a bit too much last night. It seemed like the officers were used to it; which meant the town was probably a resort one.

With borrowed clothes, a shirt way too tight and jeans too short, he stepped out of the building.

The station was at the marina. He started walking towards the biggest street, and while venturing in smaller ones, he stood outside an Internet café.

 

Realizing he had no money, Clark did something he wasn't proud of; he used his super-speed and took money out of the wallets of nearby pedestrians.

 

With 57euros and 74 cents in his pockets, Clark headed into the café, and started looking up on a computer, trying to understand where the heck he was.

 

*

 

JAKARTA, INDONESIA — MAY 4, 2015

 

‘How did you find me?’

 

The soft smile. She remembered it. The soft smile that never reached his eyes.

 

‘I have my ways.’

 

He huffed. Sitting on the cot, he took a sip of his tea. Natasha served herself one and sat on the floor.

 

‘Guess that means I should pack my bags.’

 

‘You probably should.’

 

‘There was a time when I wouldn't have pegged you for the kind who likes to visit acquaintances unprompted. But the times favor changes, I guess?’

 

‘Perhaps.’

 

They stayed silent for a while, each other appreciating the company. The place was small. A kitchenette, and a living room with a cot in it, a coffee table. It felt not even close to a home.

 

Bruce Banner looked at her and then sighed, and Natasha could see new lines that weren't on his face there three years ago.

 

*

 

She had been on the run for a while now. She remembered, a couple of months ago, when Thor started accumulating the arrest warrants. He had been the first. She knew, at this moment, that she wouldn't be running away from foes only anymore. Sooner or later, authorities would want her too.

The thing was, she couldn't hide in Asgard. She couldn't be safe anymore. She had to run.

 

Sometimes, she felt herself growing angry at the god. _Jealousy, Nat_ she would hear in her mind, in a voice close to Clint's.

 

One day, she was met by the Asgardian. He wasn't in his armor, favoring a hoodie and casual jeans, but the sense of royalty emanating from him was all the same.

 

‘ _I wish I could help you, friend Natasha.’_

 

She remembered seeing the sorrow and pain in his eyes, and all sense of anger she might have had before dissipated.

 

‘ _You're not exactly inconspicuous, big guy.’_

 

She remembered letting him embrace her in a tight hold, before starting to run away again.

 

 

*

 

 

‘Are you staying for dinner? I make a killer curry chicken with coconut rice, or so I've heard.’

 

She saw Bruce fidgeting. She could recognize the uneasiness the request brought, but also the sense of loneliness that pushed him to ask anyway.

 

She could recognize it easily. These days, if she looked at a mirror, she could see it too.

 

She stayed. She made him laugh at one time, when she told him it truly was a killer meal.

 

They talked about the others, about Tony, mainly, and about their worries for him.

 

‘ _I heard people gossiping about him. Apparently, news is on the street that Tony Stark is on house arrest.’_

 

‘ _He'll be okay. He has Pepper.’_

 

‘ _Do you think they still stand a chance?’_

 

 

 

‘ _Clint will. He's a spy, after all. I don't know about Steve. But I hope he will.’_

 

When she said that, Bruce raised an eyebrow at her. His whole feature softened. This was a part of her he never saw, probably even thought as non-existent. Love is for children. Caring about people is human.

 

Bruce cleared his throat. ‘I've been in this country for three months. I've heard lots of rumors. Though the first two weeks, most of them were about a man with a metal arm. Killed a bunch of drug dealers and pimps, then disappeared. I heard the pimps used children.’

 

She let herself raising an eyebrow.

 

‘I heard a month ago about a hit on a human trafficking ring. Rumors also spoke of a man with a metal arm.’

 

Bruce looked up from his meal.

 

‘Where?’

 

‘Mediterranean Basin. Best avoiding the area.’

 

He huffed and smiled.

 

‘Well, I always thought Europe was overrated, anyway.’

 

She slept at his place. He insisted on letting her the cot, taking himself the floor.

 

In the middle of the night, she heard soft noises. Zips. Shuffling. Packing.

 

For a short instant, she felt his hand on her shoulder, and for his sake, pretended to sleep.

 

A couple of minutes after that, she was alone in the room.

 

*

 

DÉNIA, PROVINCIA DE ALICANTE, SPAIN – MAY 4, 2015

 

Turned out the red-and-gold robot was actually a man.

Tony Stark. He was the heir to Howard Stark, was now 45, the ex-CEO of Stark Industries — and a former arms dealer. In 2010, he was captured by a terrorist group known as the Ten Rings in Afghanistan. He escaped three months later.

Back in America, he declared he would be no longer making and selling weapons.

A few weeks later, a vigilante known as the Iron Man started taking out terrorists who used Stark weapons.

In a press conference, Stark admitted being Iron Man.

 

That had been a major thing. Every news channel in the world talked about it. Tony Stark, the flamboyant billionaire who was more known for his incredible parties on page six, became widely known as the first modern-day super-hero.

 

The thing was, Clark never heard of it.

 

The only billionaire he knew for being famously known as a party-goer was Bruce Wayne.

 

When he looked Wayne on Google, he found out there wasn't much. Wayne Enterprises was not run by him, but by a man named Lucius Fox. On the official website, there was no mention of what Wayne was up to these days.

The last known article about him were about his mansion. In 1999, the mansion was deeded to NYC and transformed into an orphanage. It was maintained by the city on condition that it remained the children's home. Other than that, there were only mentions of his parents, Thomas and Martha Wayne, killed during a mugging thirty-five years ago. Apparently, Wayne witnessed it. Jesus, Clark never knew that. Wayne might've been less than ten at the time. A couple of minutes later, he found another article talking about a woman named Selina Kyle — no pictures — whom Bruce Wayne married in 2001.

 

In any case, this Wayne was definitely not the one Clark had heard about.

 

But then, most of what constituted Clark's life nowadays seemed to have no valuable results on the web. There was a Metropolis in Illinois, but nothing like the city he used to live in. No Martha Kent who looked even close to his ma. No Daily Planet. No Pulitzer prize-winning journalist Lois Lane. There wasn't even a Gotham, Wayne Enterprises HQ were based in NYC, so was the Wayne's legacy, and the Batman had only been active until 2011 — and it looked like the Dark Knight had truly been hunted by the NYPD, which wasn't the case with the GCPD; in Gotham, everyone knew the Bat was working with the Police.

 

After three hours trying to search everything he could to understand what the heck was going on, Clark's patience started to run thin.

The most logical explanation — and wasn't that hilarious — was that he was currently in another dimension. He didn't have a good knowledge of science fiction — his life was enough for him — and he didn't have a Ph.D. in Quantum Physics either.

Another dimension? That didn't seem logical at all.

 

Yet, he was an alien raised in Kansas who became famously known two years ago as Superman, when his not-so-dead people decided to invade Earth. Dimensional travel? Maybe not so impossible.

 

With all his new knowledge he got out of the café and bought three shirts and two pairs of jeans in the closest store — the borrowed clothes were seriously becoming uncomfortable — and asked the cashier if there was any good place where he could eat. He pointed him to a nearby snack-bar, so he thanked him while heading there.

 

*

 

He hadn't realized how hungry he was before — after all, he'd only eaten Cheetos the night before, too tired to cook something.

He started sitting on the nearest table to the exit, and looked at the TV screen mounted on the suspended ceiling. A woman was crying, an old-man laying on what looked like a hospital bed taking her hand in his. It probably was a telenovela.

The bar wasn't huge. A few tenants; three dark-haired women sporting casual clothes talking at a table close to the large window, two men in their fifties eating at the counter, and a man with dark shoulder-length hair covering most of his face at a table near the emergency exit.

 

A young girl with short spiked hair, big blue eyes, a crop top and oversized jeans made her way towards him, a big grin on her face.

 

-Buenas cariño, ¿sabes lo que quieres?

-Un bocadillo de jamón con queso y una caña por favor.

-Vale, muy bien.

 

He smiled at her. Her enthusiasm seemed contagious. While waiting for his sandwich, he watched at the television with no real focus. When she gave him his beer and a smile, he felt like his heart twitched.

 

She reminded him of Lois — but she didn't even look close to her! — and it hit him hard.

 

Even if things didn't work out between them — _I'm sorry Clark, but I can't stay awake every nights worrying if this time you would come home safe or not_ — and what they had might have not been called love, Clark would always have a special place for Lois in his heart. She was, after all, the closest he could think of as a best friend. 

 

For the first time of the day, he felt entirely and completely lost.

 

He had already been alone in a country he didn't know, but the feeling of loneliness had never been hard for him, because he knew, no matter what, that he could come back home whenever he wanted.

 

Here, he had no home to come back to.

 

*

 

MONTPELLIER, LANGUEDOC-ROUSSILLON, FRANCE — MAY 4, 2015

 

‘Sir?’

 

‘What?’

 

‘You asked us to notice you about any peak of strange activities in—’

 

‘Don't tell me the specifics, I don't care. Speak.’

 

‘Something happened in Spain, two hours ago, at the exact time we started the testings. It's not the same, but it looks like the data we got when Loki infiltrated SHIELD three years ago.’

 

‘Send a team there. Use Rumlow, he needs to get back on the field. Keep me updated. It might just be a coincidence. In any case, bring back everything, and I don't need to remind you that we need to stay discreet. What we do here is too important to get lost for some errands.’

 

‘Yes, Sir.’

 

*

 

 

DÉNIA, PROVINCIA DE ALICANTE, SPAIN – MAY 4, 2015

 

The Man who walked into the bar was a  **threat** .

 

_Was he one of us? Who's us? There was no us not anymore not since_ —

 

The man was a  **threat** . He felt like a  **threat** . _And we are never wrong about that_ —

 

Maybe he was one of  **them** .

**They** were a threat.  **They** could take him, where it was so cold, _so cold —_ **They** could take him away again. And again. And again.

 

_But we didn't remember. The man on the bridge said he did. He said he'd known us, he_ —

 

He was our  **Mission** .

 

We shaped the last century. Maybe we needed to shape this century, too. And we did, yes we did, we created  **order** .

We took away chaos whenever we could. We killed the ones who used children. We killed the ones who poisoned the others. We killed the ones who used others. We cleaned that city, and that other one, and then the other one, and another and so many more. Because society was at a tipping point between order and chaos. And The Man was a  **threat** .

_To us? Or to society?_

Our work had been a gift to mankind. If The Man was a threat to us, he was a threat to society. The Man was a threat to  **order** . Our mission was to create  **order** .

 

And  **order** only came through  **pain** .

 

*

 

‘Sir, our scientists have located the source of the anomalies coming from a marina in Eastern Spain. I'm in the location, now.’

 

There was a sigh at the other end of the line.

 

‘Well? What else?’

 

‘We've interrogated men from the local police forces; the only strange thing that happened this morning was a man found naked.’

 

An annoyed sigh.

 

‘And? Sarkissian, stop wasting my time.’

 

She smiled. She couldn't help herself; after all, Control did send her here when she would've rather stayed in bed this morning.

 

‘It matches. The man was found 30 minutes after the anomalies. At the same place.’

 

A silence.

 

‘Find him. Bring him in. I don't care how, just do it.’

 

‘Will do, Sir.’

 

She put her phone in her breast pocket. ‘Boys, I've got news from Control; we're gonna have a guest on our way back to HQ. Hernandez,’ the man walked towards her and nodded, ‘take two guys with you, and find everything you can about our naked friend.‘ Hernandez nodded, _Sure thing, boss_ , and started giving orders to a couple of men. ‘And Nagata,’ the woman looked up from her computer, ‘you're coming with me. Let's get a tour of the town. Who knows, maybe we'll find something else.’

 

Sarkissian looked at Nagata packing her materials and huffed. Scientists always packed too much and were, in her opinion, a burden in the field.

 

‘Phillips, Sandusky, you're on baby-sitting duty. We wouldn't want our scientists to get into the line of danger.’

 

The two groaned, but started settling near the scientific crew still doing the stuff they were supposed to do with all their machinery. Anyway, it wasn't like she cared about it. She'd been a Specialist, and a STRIKE team player.

 

And if she would've been the one in charge, they wouldn't have had an alive guest in their way back either.

 

*

 

‘Ma'am?’

 

‘Hmm?’ She was having a hot cocoa in a bar with view on the sea. What? Hernandez was already looking for their man, anyway. And if the situation went FUBAR— well, they still had Rumlow in the fridge. Nagata was furiously typing on her computer, her glass of orange juice long forgotten.

 

‘I think I've found something you need to see, Ma'am.’

 

Sarkissian took off her glasses and started squinting at the screen.

 

‘What am I supposed to see here, Julie?’

 

At the use of her name, Nagata seemed pleased. It was almost too easy.

 

‘I've hacked the nearby Wi-Fi channels, and some of the search results that I've monitored are.. peculiar, Ma'am.’

 

Sarkissian looked closer. Between e-mails and online gaming activities, one Cyber Café had several results in English: “ _NY aliens giant red robot”, “what is Iron Man”, “Tony Stark”, “Avengers”, “SHIELD DC”, “Black widow SHIELD”_ , a couple about towns called Metropolis, Smallville, and two women: Martha Kent and Lois Lane. Then, a thorough research about Bruce Wayne, Wayne Enterprises and the criminal known as The Batman.

 

But what caught her eyes were the last researches: _“Superman”_ , _“Metropolis Superman”._

“ _Aliens destroying Metropolis”_.

 

‘That café is nearby, right?’

 

‘Yes, ma'am; right at the corner of this street. The online researches stopped an hour ago, he's probably not even here any more.’

 

Sarkissian gulped down the rest of her cocoa. ‘That doesn't mean we can't get more Intel. Drink up, we're going there.’

 

She stood up, not even waiting for Nagata. She saw the café right when she turned on the other street; a hole in the wall, which stood up by its contrasting dirty setting. When she walked in, the cashier, a young teenager, gave her a look; she flashed him a smile, and in a flawless Spanish, asked her about the man who were there earlier.

 

‘I've met him yesterday, and he said we should meet up at some bar, but I can't remember which one. He told me he was going here this morning, so I thought I could perhaps meet him there.’

 

‘Tall one? Dark-haired and blue eyes, and a very odd fashion sense?’

 

Probably because of the borrowed clothes the cops gave him. Sarkissian grinned.

 

‘Yes, yes exactly! That's him!’

 

The boy pouted.

 

‘I'm sorry, _guapa_ , but he left like an hour ago. Though, I saw him walking into the clothing store other there.’

 

He pointed her to a nearby store, on the other side of the street. She kept smiling, thanking him and winked when she went out.

 

She saw Nagata outside looking at her, flushed, probably from having rushed to meet up with her.

 

‘He went into a store. Wait for me here.’

 

The scientist seemed surprised by the sudden coldness. _Oh, right, she was being nice a moment before_. Well, the moment's over.

 

‘Y– yes ma'am.’

 

She didn't even wait for her answer. Clock's ticking. She walked into the store. A medium-sized one, one side for men, the other for women, all casual clothes. She looked at the cashier, a young man. This one sported pink hair, a pierced nose and several tattoos on the left arm. He was actually busy on his phone, looking bored. When the boy spotted her, he smiled brightly and asked her if she needed any help. Sarkissian got surprised by the sudden change.

 

‘¿English?’

 

‘Uh, yes please. I'm actually looking for someone; he's tall, dark haired and has dreamy blue eyes.' She sighed. 'I heard he was here an hour ago?’

 

‘Mr Tall, Dark and Broody, yes!' Uh. A touch of American accent; so probably an English major then. 'This one was a number; came with the most distasteful jeans I've ever seen, asked jeans and a plaid-shirt, and walked out wearing them.’

 

She laughed.

 

‘That'd be him; last night was something.. Any chance you'd know where he went? We're supposed to meet a couple of friends later, but he left his phone at the flat. And I'm pretty sure he won't remember if I'm not here.’ She winked, for the pretence of it. The young man laughed.

 

‘He asked me for a place where he could eat. You'll probably find him there, the one at the corner, called _La cocina de Lola_.’

 

She thanked him, flashed him a smile and waved him goodbye.

 

On her way out, her phone rang.

 

‘Hernandez, right on time. I found him.’

 

‘We found him too, boss.’ There was something in his voice. Something that told her that he was reluctant to talk.

 

‘What is it?’

 

He sighed. ‘You're not gonna like it, boss.’ When she was starting to snap at him, what he said made her stop.

 

‘The Asset, boss. The Asset's here.’

 

Goddammit. Fucking shit on a stick. They were _not_ ready for that.

 

‘Hernandez, do **not** engage. Clear the area and await further orders.’

 

‘Copy that, boss.’ The line clicked.

 

This was what she had waited for a while. Finally, a chance to tell Control to suck it up his ass. If Sarkissian brought back the Asset in, she'd definitely take his place. Bye bye scientists' baby-sittings, hello to the rewards.

 

This was her chance, but she had to react fast.

 

She called Sandusky.

 

‘Boss?’

 

‘Get the scientists into the jet and bring out all the toys; because looks like today's our lucky day. Today we're bringing the Asset back home.’

 

‘All the toys, Boss? Do you mean—’

 

‘No, don't take Rumlow out of the fridge. I don't think he's combat-ready yet.’ _Or what's left of him anyway_. ‘Meet me at the rendezvous point in twenty.’

 

Rumlow had his chance; and he missed it. He could've done greater things. If he had been any more smarter, he could've even become a Head, one day.

 

But the idiot burnt into a building, and the serum they injected in him years before kept him alive. And well, with the Asset gone — they needed soldiers. Good soldiers were hard to find these days.

 

Rumlow complied. Or what was left of him anyway. Sarkissian had been in another STRIKE team, but she remembered the Alpha leader as a man of a few words and dry humor. These days, he never talked, never spoke unless spoken to. He's a shell of the man he was because he missed his chance.

 

Sarkissian wasn't going to.

 

*

 

There were civilians out here, we could not take The Man out. But The Man was a  **threat** .

 

_What would the man on the bridge do?_ Maybe Steve— _the_ _**Mission** _ would take The Man out, right here. We didn't need to know. We had to analyze the situation. There were six civilians in the room, and two in the back. The Man was near another exit. We needed to lead him out. _How?_ We couldn't _talk_ to him. We _couldn't_ talk—

 

**Order** ,  **order** , not chaos. We shaped the last century. We needed to shape this century, too, did we? _Did we?_

Our work had been a gift to mankind. Society needed  **order** . And we would bring  **order** .

 

Two men walked into the bar.

 

**They were threats.** They were armed. Why? Why were they?

 

Civilians were not armed. Civilians were no threats. But they were. They might have been here for something. But, what?

 

_Us_.

 

They found us.

 

They found us, they found us, they found us, they found us. _We need to fight, we need to run_ —

 

*

 

One minute, Clark was thanking the girl when she gave him his sandwich, still lost in thoughts. Still thinking about his Ma. About Lois.

The minute after, two men walked into the bar. He paid them no attention.

Seconds after that, he heard the silenced shots. One, two, three. One, two. One. When he lifted his head up, he looked at the girl behind the counter. He looked at her blue eyes, big and afraid. Then, he looked down.

A hole. Straight into her chest.

 

He forgot about his powers. He forgot about his super-speed. Forgot his super-hearing.

 

Thing was, Clark _couldn't_ forget about his powers. They were a part of him, mostly became an unconscious one — just like breathing, only hearing had been very, very difficult to get used to as a kid — and so a part of his life.

Yet, ever since he woke up in a street this morning, it seemed like, most of the time, Clark forgot about them, something he shouldn't have been able to do.

 

_He should've listened more closely_. He should've heard the men's heartbeats, the clicks of the guns' safety.

 

_He should've heard the clicks of the metallic wiring in the dark-haired man's arm_.

 

But any thoughts, any fears, any alarming lights that should have probably lighten up in his mind never came, because he was staring at the girl.

 

He was staring at her eyes, not realizing that the dark-haired man flipped a table at the two shooters, took their guns, killed them and started shooting at him, bullets ricocheting on his chest. He was still staring at her eyes when three other men walked into the bar, and then fell down to the shots of the dark-haired man.

He was still staring when her body crumpled and fell down. It felt like his reflexes kicked back when he realized the only other man still standing was taking a swing at him, attacking with a combat knife. Clark's hands stopped him from attacking more, immobilizing him and saw his blue eyes. Big, and afraid.

The dark-haired man was yelling something. Yet, Clark seemed unable to hear him clearly. There was a loud ringing. He thought the man said civilians, and yelled questions at him, but he was not too sure.

 

He was trying to get away from his grip, and in his movements, Clark caught sight of metal on his left arm underneath his sleeve. Immobilizing him turned out to be harder than he thought because Clark didn't want to hurt him, but the man was wild yet controlled in his movements, like a trained tiger viciously attacking a tamer. When the man kicked into his stomach, he understood the questions.

 

The man had started attacking the shooters because he realized what they were going to do — which, Clark rather not think about right now, he hadn't. He killed all the assailants, and tried to kill him too.

 

_He thought Clark was with them_.

 

‘I— I didn't. I'm not with them.’

 

The man, for a split second, seemed to stop trying to escape his grip. But he kept at it in the end.

 

‘YOU ARE A **THREAT**! YOU WERE WITH **THEM**!’

 

The inflections seemed accidental, or not controlled anyway, but Clark heard them. He started to answer when he heard something.

 

A quick heartbeat. Outside the bar, close to the door. A woman's.

 

‘There's someone out there.’

 

The man seemed to understand him, but Clark reacted faster. Using his super-speed, when the door opened, he took the person out and placated her to the nearby wall. _The one with the counter_ , his mind reminded him.

It was a tall, slender brunette with a pixie haircut and in a full tactical gear suit. He was the one immobilizing her, and yet she was looking behind his shoulder. She was staring at the dark-haired man.

 

‘Take a deep breath. Calm your mind.’ Clark heard the man squeal. ‘You know what is best.’ He heard the knife crashing on the floor. ‘What is best is you—’

 

Clark put his hand on her mouth. He looked at the other man, whose entire body was shaking. Something was not right — _everything was not right_ — he couldn't put his finger on it, but he knew it had to do with her talking. He put a finger on a pressure point and made her faint. When she looked like she wouldn't wake anytime soon, he pointed an accusative finger at the other man.

 

‘Are **_you_** with them?’ He snarled. 

 

He tried to stay level-headed. Clark didn't let himself think about what happened in the last five minutes. He tried not to think about the girl.

 

He saw the other man shaking, his eyes reflecting pain, and he saw his mouth hung open, as if he was trying to get a word out. Clark's whole posture changed, and his eyebrows furrowed.

The other man was silently crying until he whispered a single word, his heartbeat furiously beating in his ribcage.

 

‘N— n— No. **_No_**.’

 

As soon as he saw the other man's knees buckled, he let go of the woman, and supported the other man with his arms.

 

No, no, no. The other kept repeating it, again and again. It looked like he wasn't here anymore. He was shaking, hard, and kept saying no like a mantra, louder and louder.

 

Something wasn't right. This man was at his throat not even a minute ago, took out two armed men by himself in barely less than _ten seconds_ , and ever since the woman started talking at him, Clark held him like he would've held a drowning man. This didn't make any sense.

 

And because of that, Clark did something he rarely did.

 

He acted before thinking.

 

He blasted the door open with his left feet, took the other man in his arms and lifted them away from the ground, flying off towards the nearest mountain.

 

*

JAKARTA, INDONESIA — MAY 5, 2015

 

‘Friend Natasha.’ No. For once in her life, she allowed herself to sleep in. She was going to enjoy it.

‘I do not have much time, my lady.’

 

She huffed and sat on the bed, opening her eyes as if she hadn't been waking up seconds ago. 'Morning, big guy.'

 

Thor smiled. He was wearing what looked like old beige slacks and a half opened light button up shirt and his hair was tucked in a ponytail. He looked like the perfect Swedish tourist. Natasha let herself snort. She directed him to the table, getting up and started boiling water for tea. Thor gave a sense of easiness in his whole self, unaware of his own towering body and the picture it made in the tiny room, yet his eyes betrayed how much awkward he felt.

He coughed, clearing his throat.

 

‘I uh, I saw, uh — the good doctor seemed well.’

 

When she raised an eyebrow at him, Thor made gestures towards the sky, with a sheepish smile. He saw them from the Bifrost, then. Natasha didn't know what to think of the fact that he was watching them, tried most of the time to forget it. After all, she was used being watched by hidden eyes; she was a spy after all.

The red-head knew he was trying small-talk — it had been a source of her fondness for him when she had been assigned to his surveillance, weeks after London; his eagerness at learning social conventions, human habits and cultures — and even if she was pleased that he tried humoring her, she knew when there were no time for pleasantries.

She gave him a cup of tea, for which he thanked her, and sat on the bed.

 

‘What is it, big guy?’

 

Thor sighed.

 

‘Heimdall is greatly confused, friend Natasha. He told me about a disturbance, happening a day ago on Midgard, precisely on the soil of the kingdom of Spain.’

 

Natasha raised an eyebrow. The Asgardian continued.

 

'He cannot see the kingdom anymore. Something is blocking his view, which is very rare. It calls distress to our all-seing Guardian.’

 

Natasha raised both of her eyebrows. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

 

‘Because I cannot go. Whatever is shielding the kingdom of Spain from Heimdall's sight also blocks me from setting foot on its soil. However, it does not seem to affect Midgardians. I suspect your authorities have not yet realised what is happening.’ At this, Natasha understood what Thor was subtly asking her.

 

‘You want me to go there.’

 

Thor looked at her sheepishly. He knew the position she was in.

 

‘I would not ask of you such request if it were not important. Asgardians cannot cross the kingdom, even the Allfather's ravens cannot. I do not trust Midgardians authorities to inform them of such happenings. But I do trust you, spider lady.’

 

His eyes softened at the nickname. Natasha knew she couldn't refuse. After all, she was still the only Avenger who could walk freely — well, she wasn't free per se, more like on the run, but she was used to it — and she was fluent in Spanish. Plus, last known sightings of the Winter Soldier were on the Mediterranean Bassin; which meant that if the man was in Spain, it would lead up to no good. She smiled, drinking her tea.

 

‘Okay,’ she saw Thor's shoulders sinking slightly in relief, ‘though I'll need your help.’

 

‘What is it you need me for, friend Natasha?’

 

‘If what you say is true, it could be anything. And we've already lost an entire day.’

 

'Indeed.'

 

'Then I need to get there quickly. Can you get me to Gibraltar?'

 

Thor looked constricted. 'I fear the Allfather would not want us to use the Bifrost for the matter.’ He seemed to think about something for an instant and then looked at her, a mischievous look in his eyes, ‘but Mjölnir and I can fly you safely there, as fast as you may be able to.'

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations for the Non-English speaking parts:
> 
> Buenas cariño, ¿sabes lo que quieres?: Hey, handsome. You ready to order?
> 
> Un bocadillo de jamón con queso y una caña por favor.: A ham and cheese sandwich with a draft beer, please.
> 
> Vale, muy bien.: Very good.


	3. Reminiscence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, as you've probably noticed, I haven't posted in a while.. I know. I got a good reason though? I've been traveling Europe for the last months, and computers weren't really something I've thought about.. sorry? But hey, good news is: I got time to post a chapter! Wheee!  
> Also, someone is making art for the first chapter. I cannot express you how excited I am about this, it's like, a jumping everywhere kind of excitement you see?

FEDERAL PLAZA, NEW YORK CITY - MAY 5, 2015

 

Bilal had been quiet ever since they breached the topic of 'I looked up on your files last night'. Bruce didn't mind the quiet. He had been getting used to it ever since Dick moved out to college. The kid was looking up in the database what has been known about Jessica Jones — the name about a person of interest one cop gave to him yesterday. Bruce was perfectly content in drinking his coffee, and watching the kid fidget. He knew his stare put people uncomfortable. He had developed it expressly for that sole purpose.

 

 

'Why did you stop working on SWAT team?'

 

Bruce raised an eyebrow. He hadn't expected him to talk for a long moment, let alone about that. The kid was still staring at the screen, trying really hard not to look at Bruce.

 

'Come again?'

 

The kid sighed. ‘You were on SWAT team. You stop abruptly. Why?’

 

‘How come you become a cop when your best friend has been killed by some?’

 

There. There was the glare he expected. Two could play at this game. Bruce smirked and sipped his second mug of coffee. He thought they were finished with the conversation when the kid, again in not even two minutes — Bruce was really not a morning person so he had an excuse — surprised him by speaking.

 

‘Cops don't understand us. Don't understand how we work, what is it like to live where we live. I remember seeing them arrest us for no reason. Just to make us angry. I don't. I know where I come from. I don't forget. And I won't let my brothers and sisters down because some cops played with us like we were trash.’

 

Bilal startled when he realized he broke in two the pen he was holding in his left hand. He let it go abruptly, staring at it. Yet he seemed unfazed. He then looked at Bruce, daring him to say something. Bruce put his coffee down and cleared his throat.

 

‘I was part of an enhanced SWAT team, working with the HRT. We used to work on the other side of the Mexican border. Did some ugly stuff in Juarez. I got sick of it. I've been approached again a couple years later then, during Operation Black Widow. Passed physicals all well, but,’ he stared at his left hand remembering when he had turned off the job, ‘then I already had my son.’

 

‘Richard.’ It wasn't a question.

 

‘Well, Dick — well, yeah. He was— he was still a kid back then.’

 

He knew he softened every time he talked about Dick. He couldn't help it. He had never been one to put photographs of his kid on his desk — call it what you want, but he didn't need all the office to know he had a son, and fuck you very much Nancy for asking about Dick every single time she saw Bruce at the coffee maker. Not that he truly said fuck you to her. Bruce told her he was okay. He even told her when Dick got sick one time. And he thanked her that time when she gave him tips on how to talk with a teenager — which turned out to be very helpful.

But hey, him having a son was nobody's business but his.

 

Bilal looked at him, then at his left hand where Bruce was still staring at, and silently nodded. As if he decided the conversation was over, he looked up at the computer screen again, taking a new pen and scribbling on his notepad.

 

*

 

When Bruce had deemed Bilal had worked enough on memorizing every single part of Jones' life known to them — maybe he was doing something else but then Bruce didn't know what, and damn, he spent half an hour scribbling in French on his notepad and staring at Jones' file so he probably might as well had memorized all the informations — he grabbed his coat and headed for the door, waving a hand at Bilal. 'Let's go, kid. Time to shake the tree.'

 

Jessica Jones was the owner of Alias Investigations, a one-woman PI firm, which as it turned out, whose office was in Hell's Kitchen, where Daredevil was active. Bruce knocked at the door of the office and waited. The kid was standing at his right, a little behind him, right hand in his coat pocket.

 

A towering man opened the door, looked at them and then excused himself, strolling in the corridor toward the elevator. A woman who could have been none other than Jessica Jones stood at the door and took consideration of them. She looked like she had had one hell of a night. Bilal was discreetly looking at the man waiting for the elevator.

 

Bruce raised an eyebrow. 'Mrs Jones? Jessica Jones?'

 

She eyed him suspiciously.

 

'Who's asking?'

 

He showed her his badge. 'I'm Special Agent Bruce Wayne, FBI, ma'am. This is my partner, Agent Bilal Asselah, who's working for Interpol. We'd like to ask you a couple of questions.' She huffed. 'Can we please come in, ma'am?'

 

He knew she didn't take his smile for anything but bullshit. And she was right in doing so. She looked at the both of them, snorted and started closing her door.

 

‘I don't think so.’

 

Bilal stopped her by blocking the door with his hand, making her glare at him.

 

‘Madame,’ he smiled soflty, ‘we are not here about Kilgrave. Is not our problem and not our case.’ She still glared at him, ‘Please,’ he tried to loose his stance, and let go of her door. She didn't close it. ‘just listen to us for five minutes. Just five. Promise.’

 

Bruce knew when his bravado wouldn't be a good addition, so he said nothing, just looked at her, a gentle look on his face. Jones stared at Bilal a bit more, but then, as if she made up her mind, she sighed and opened the door a bit more slightly gesturing at them to follow her. The kid looked at Bruce, eyebrow raised in a defiant stance, and then entered before him. Bruce huffed and rolled his eyes.

Jones gestured at them to sit down in her office, while she stayed up behind her desk, arms crossed.

 

‘Go ahead. Talk.’

 

Bilal looked at Bruce. Ah. Bruce forgot about the ‘not great at English’ part about the kid. He cleared his throat then looked at the woman, bending himself closer to her on his sit, elbows on his knees and held his hands together, fingers crossing.

 

‘Miss Jones. We uh, we'd like to ask you some questions, because of, erm, because of your special skills.’

 

She seemed unimpressed. Perhaps she realized Bruce was deliberately not talking straight. He didn't know why, but he had a feeling Jones wasn't one buying his usual goody two shoes bullshit.

She snarked at him, ‘What do you mean, "special skills"? I specialize in love affairs. Surely the feds don't need me to know if the director's wife is sleeping with her personal trainer.’

 

Bruce liked her. Better forget his goody two shoes act, because he was now sure as hell it wasn't going to work on her. Laying back on his sit, he lifted his chin up defiantly, smirking and raised an eyebrow at her. Bilal looked at him questioningly when he saw at the corner of his right eye the whole change of stance in Bruce's posture.

 

‘You know I'm not talking about your job, Miss Jones.’

 

‘And what would that be, then?’

 

Bruce grinned, deliberately letting his teeth show.

 

‘I'm talking about the fact that we've got several witness' testimonies talking about you showing unusual physical strength—’

 

‘You saying this because I'm skinny?’

 

‘—unusual physical strength for a _human_ , if you'd prefer.’ He raised his eyebrow when she talked over him. ‘And we've got some city footages of you doing, may I say, _very_ high jumps.’

 

Jones seemed annoyed by him.

 

‘Sure you're not talking about Kilgrave?’

 

Bruce smirked and ignored the way the kid was looking at him. He did his homework too, he just did it the night before. This was why Bruce could slowly enjoy coffee in the morning and why the kid couldn't. But hey, he wasn't going to be the one to tell him. Better that the kid figured it out himself.

 

‘Like my partner said before, we're not here about Kilgrave. But we can talk about it if you want.’

 

She snared. ‘I rather not.’

 

‘I figured. Then, we can talk about someone else.’

 

She stayed silent for a moment.

 

‘Who?’

 

‘The Devil of Hell's Kitchen.’

 

She huffed.

 

‘What about him?’

 

Bruce crossed his right leg over.

 

‘Any idea what he is up to these days?’

 

Jones laughed, and sat on her office chair. ‘Wow. You're just that desperate.’ She pushed her elbows on the desk and crossed her arms. ‘You have so little about him that you go knocking at every super freaks' door.’

 

Bruce chuckled. ‘So you consider yourself a freak, then.’

 

She smirked and looked at the kid.

 

‘Anyone ever told him he's an asshole?’

 

Bilal shrugged.

 

‘You still haven't answered my question, Miss Jones.’

 

‘Well,’ she shrugged, ‘I'm afraid I don't. You see, I don't have every lunatics on speed dial.’

 

‘But you have some.’ It wasn't a question.

 

Jones got up from her chair. ‘I think this conversation is over. Gentlemen, I'd like you to leave. You know the way to the exit.’

 

Bruce smirked and nodded, getting up and going for the door. When he saw the kid standing and following him, he turned his head on the side and looked at his right, his back at Jones. ‘Just a last question. Who was that man we saw leaving your office earlier?’

 

She gritted her teeth.

 

‘Sorry, I don't discuss cases.’

 

Bruce chuckled. ‘And you always sleep with your cases?’

 

At that, the kid stopped walking and stared at him, shocked. Jones' hands moved into tight fists.

 

‘Get. Out.’

 

Bruce turned completely at her, raised his hands in a pacific gesture and smirked, ‘I was just asking,’ he started walking backward to the exit, ‘anyway, have a nice day Miss Jones.’

 

*

 

LE HAVRE, NORMANDIE, FRANCE – MAY 4, 2015

 

Clint had called Steve forty minutes ago. It wasn't that long, right?

 

Right.

 

Their shitty motel was at the other side of the city anyway. Cap was probably caught up in some traffic. In any case, Clint was having the time of his life. He's been sitting on a crappy chair for forty minutes, with two gorillas who seemed as smart as they look, and a creepy Cajun dude with definitely weird eyes. Sometimes, when the light would catch up with them, it almost seemed as if they were red. Or purple. Or a color that you shouldn't see in eyes. That, or Clint was just tired. Eh. One way or another, it wasn't good.

He caught noises from downstairs. Two people were coming up. He tried to act nonchalant, but let his eyes roamed towards the staircase.

When he saw Cap's blond hair coming from the stairs, he felt himself relaxing. Then tensing. Cap was alright. But now he was in this shitty situation too.

 

LeBeau stood up from his chair, grinning at Steve.

 

‘Well, well. It is an honor to meet you, Captain.’

 

Steve grimaced. If the situation wasn't so dodgy, Clint would've laughed — only Steve would shave a gritty beard and put his hair in their usual fashion while on the run. Even if he had worked for SHIELD for a while, Cap's never been a spy.

 

When Steve just nodded at LeBeau and then looked at him, Clint decided to take the attention away from him.

 

‘Guess you already know my friend. Fantastic, right?’ The Cajun turned his head to him and raised an eyebrow at his sarcastic tone. ‘So, about those names: can you help or not?’

 

The guy sat back on his chair, and put his hands on the table. ‘Do you have my money?’

 

‘Half of it now. The other half when all will be done.’

 

‘Fair enough,’ the guy pointed his index to Clint, ‘I think we have an agreement, cher. Come back here tomorrow night at 6, and I'll have what you need.’

 

*

 

That night in their room, Steve drank in the bottle of whiskey Clint had bought earlier to share with him. Once again, he regretted not having any of the desired effects. He thought about the Tower, and missed the gym they had. He really wanted to blow off some steam on a punching bag right now.

The two were sitting in a companionable silence — they got used to it during their journey across the Atlantic — when Clint, looking at the rain pouring at their window, started talking.

 

‘The first time I saw Thor, it was raining as much. I remember seeing him kick ass.’ He chuckled. ‘Though it wasn't a good day for the big guy.’

 

‘It was in New Mexico. I was with the team that got called when we discovered Mjölnir.’ He seemed to pause, lost in thought, and Steve stood silent, ‘Coulson was here.’

Clint nodded and gulped his glass in one shot. Steve raised his own, and gulped it too.

 

‘You know, this Cajun dude,’ Steve nodded in affirmation, ‘there's something off with him. I mean, really, do you hear many Cajun say “cher” all the time these days? That's super cliché.’ Clint waved his hands as if explaining his point, ‘and he's got, like, super weird eyes. And it ain't some contact lenses, 'cause it's like their color changes sometimes.’

 

‘What d'you mean?’

 

‘It's like they're red, Cap. Glowing red, but not in a cartoon way. I don't know how to explain it.’

 

Steve frowned.

 

‘You think he's enhanced?’

 

‘Dunno,’ Clint shrugged, ‘but if he is, we better watch out. He might be friendly with Tasha, but that doesn't mean he'll be with us.’

 

 

*

 

STARK TOWER, NEW YORK – MAY 5, 2015

 

‘Boss.’

 

Tony cringed every time. Ever since they took J away from him, he tried to keep busy in his workshop.

 

Every time FRIDAY, his newly functioning baby, the back-up AI he made a few years ago and kept secret — and how damn right he had been to do so — talked, he cringed. He couldn't help it, and he knew it wasn't her fault.

 

JARVIS had legally been the property of Stark Industries, FRIDAY wasn't. The government took J away from him, pretending a full revision of SI. They made up new laws that stripped him off of everything and prevented him from striking back. He had been yelling at Rhodey when he heard winds of them, about totalitarianism and lack of freedom. _They start with this, but soon we won't have any rights left! I'm not a terrorist!_

That night he drank as much as he used to after Afghanistan, and probably as much as he did last night.

He'd been locked up in his workshop ever since Clint and Steve fled the country. He went out to answer questions from the authorities in charge — which ones, he didn't remember, or didn't even care — of their case, the ones that decided the Avengers under SI should be labelled terrorists, but other than that, he stayed in. After all, he was on house arrest. It wasn't like he could've gone somewhere else.

 

In 2007, if someone would've told him he'd saved the world, had been part of team of super-heroes under the command of Captain fucking America himself, and then that they would all be labelled terrorists, he would've probably laughed to tears.

 

But it was 2015, and three years ago he went into a giant hole through space.

 

‘Boss.’

 

Oh shit, yeah, FRIDAY.

 

‘'Sup, babe?’

 

‘It's about Lone Ranger.’

 

‘Override workshop security: Anthony Edward Stark, protocol Fury.’

 

‘The workshop is now running on Eyepatch mode. All external communications and sources are off, boss.’

 

He'd always liked the gloomy atmosphere the emergency power unit's lights gave to the room. DUM-E however always seemed distress.

 

‘Well hey, don't break anything, boy. So FRIDAY, what's going on?’

 

Project Lone Ranger had been, at first, a way to keep what Romanoff gave him secret. When SHIELD fell, she gave him their Index, telling him she trusted him with it — which, wow, had been a real surprise for Tony, and he rarely was surprised. The Index regrouped people and objects with powers under the surveillance of SHIELD; so enhanced and gifted folks around the world had their identities known by the agency and the Widow knew that releasing it on the web would lead to a witch-hunt. At first, it had been held by J, but when governments around the world started declaring supers as threat, Tony hid it under his private servers, far away from SI's view.

 

These days, Project Lone Ranger was a way for Tony to keep up with every vigilantes and supers he discovered — even if they weren't aware of it. It was his own rebellion against the system. The world wanted to hunt every one of them? Fair enough. But Tony Stark was going to give them _hell_ to achieve that. He already discovered the identities of few vigilantes working in the city, and every time he did that, he would wiped everything that could lead anyone else to them.

The only one he regretted not having infos on before shit hit the fan was Kilgrave. What happened in February had been a disaster. Sometimes, he thought that, maybe, if he had had the man in the Index back then, he could have prevented what happened.

 

‘The files about Nightrunner had been updated, boss.’

 

‘Who's that again?’

 

‘Nightrunner is categorized as a human vigilante, starting in 2011 in Paris. His civil identity is Bilal Asselah, police officer, started working for Interpol three months ago.’

 

‘Hmm, yeah him, I remember Parkour-guy. What about him?’

 

‘He landed in New York four days ago.’

 

Wait. ‘Why didn't you inform me earlier?’

 

Silence. ‘I wasn't able to, boss. It would've been against my protocol.’

 

Which meant there were close to get caught with this one. ‘Is he okay?’

 

‘It appears so. He has been sent on a joint mission with the FBI.’

 

‘Should we hack their database?’

 

‘I don't think that's a good idea, boss.’

 

‘Damn, you're right. Fuck. Why is this happening to me?’

 

‘Because you're on house arrest, boss, which means you can't—’

 

‘Yeah, I know J, that was rhetorical. Shit. Sorry, FRIDAY. Anyway, try to keep an eye on him, alright?’

 

‘Will do, boss. There is also an article you should know about.’

 

He looked at the virtual newspaper dated from a week ago that appeared in front of him. ‘I'm too tired for Spanish, babe.’ FRIDAY translated the article. “DRUG TRAFFICANTS ARRESTED BY THE POLICE IN BARCELONA — Rumors say man in hood dismantled the ring.”

 

‘Let me guess. Barnes is discovering the joy of _la Costa Brava_.’

 

FRIDAY didn't reply. He tried not to think about Steve, tried not to think that he had been watching Barnes from afar without telling him. He knew it would've been a bad idea, if the good captain had known where his best friend was, he would've run looking for him, let be damn with the consequences — say, they were already under the spotlight for being maybe terrorists, so adding an HYDRA assassin brainwashed or not to the mix wasn't the best course of action. Tony had hid it from Steve because he cared about the soldier. And Steve was safe in the Tower.

 

Well. At least he had been for a while. ‘That everything, darling?’

 

 

‘Yes, boss.’

 

‘Alright. Let's go back kickin'. Turn off the Eyepatch mode.’

 

With the lights in the workshop coming back and the different noises of wiring, DUM-E nodded happily, rolling around Steve's couch.

Tony swallowed. He rather not think about Steve's couch. He didn't feel it in himself to get rid of it, yet he couldn't sat on it — it didn't feel right. This was Steve's couch, the one where he used to draw.

Behind it was Clint's table. The one where he used to sit when he felt in the mood to annoy Tony, the one he landed on from the air vents.

 

‘FRIDAY, resume playlist, volume 7.’

 

The first notes of _Safe In New York City_ started booming in the workshop.

 

*

 

HELL'S KITCHEN, NEW YORK – MAY 5, 2015

 

They were stuck in traffic and the kid had been brooding ever since they've stepped out of Jones' office. Bruce found it extremely annoying.

 

‘Spit it out, kid, instead of sulking like a teenager.’

 

« T'es vraiment qu'un sale con. »

 

Well, that's the first time the kid told him he was an asshole. That might have counted for something.

 

‘Well thank you, and fuck you too, kid.’

 

Bilal frowned.

 

Eyes still on the road, Bruce snorted. ‘Yeah, I understand French. Wasn't that marked in my files?’

 

The kid ignored him. ‘Your attitude gives us nothing. The girl threw us out, I hope you are happy.’ His phone beeped. ‘Your boss sent this.’ He showed Bruce the text when they were at a red light.

 

_**GET WAYNE'S ASS BACK AT THE OFFICE NOW**_.

 

‘What does that mean?’

 

‘It means’ Bruce huffed, ‘that we're already on our way.’

 

The kid stared at him, unfazed.

 

‘You're a jerk.’

 

Bruce grinned cheekily, ‘I know, right?’

 

‘I mean,’ he gave the finger at Wayne, ‘why do I receive this and not you?’

 

‘Because he hates my guts.’ And with that, Bruce stared out front and started the car. Jones probably snitched him, and Thompson was going to take pleasure in yelling at him.

 

*

 

LE HAVRE, NORMANDIE, FRANCE – MAY 6, 2015

 

‘Gentlemen. Right on time.’

 

Steve was fidgeting. A lot. And yeah, Clint got it. The guy gave him the creeps, too. The Captain had been silent all day. Well, it wasn't like Clint talked either. Things had been quiet between them ever since they ran away, which changed a lot from their time at the Tower. It wasn't like Steve or him had been talkative folks — they let that to Tony — but there were always sounds everywhere; Cap's charcoal scratching on one of his drawings, and laughing at something Tony probably said or did, Clint goofing around taking pleasure at annoying them or even Thor being, well, Thor. Even Tasha, ever the silent one, had a presence that acted like it could have been music. Sounds had always been significant to Clint; it meant life, and so much more.

Now they mostly shared silence. Not because they were friendly, mind you, but because they realized how much they lost. Ever since the circus, Clint never felt like he belonged; SHIELD had never been his home. Once, Tasha might had been, well her and Phil.

 

But Loki's a dick.

 

‘LeBeau. Got what we asked for?’

 

The big boss smirked. ‘Straight to business, cher, I see. Not even small talk?’

 

Steve gritted his teeth. ‘I do it with my friends only.’

 

The Cajun looked sharply at him, then snorted, ‘You should mind your manners, Captain.’

 

Clint put a hand in front of Steve, sensing the other tensing. He tried to smile at Remy. It probably looked like a grimace.

 

One of the gorillas from yesterday put two envelopes on the table. LeBeau opened them, revealing a set of passports, and files. He took the first set and handed it out to Steve.

 

‘Your name is Brett Hendrick’ Steve took it all in his hands, looking at his new identity, ‘You supervise security at a mall in Queens. You have two sisters, one of whom has three children. One day, you realized your life was pointless and wanted to act on it: you decided to follow your best friend, Mr Bernard here,’ LeBeau gave Clint his own files, ‘in a journey around the world.’

 

Cap frowned, ‘My sister's named Laurel Queen and lives in Arkhansas.’

 

‘Yes’, the Cajun grinned, ‘and if anyone calls her, she'd tell them you'd always been a possessive big brother.’

 

‘What do you mean?’ Clint became suspicious.

 

‘She and her husband Oliver are friends of mine. They used to live in Moscow, for a while. Well, until they decided to sell things that didn't belong to them.’

 

‘Like?’ Steve looked sick.

 

With a shark smile, LeBeau replied, ‘Names of former KGB agents infiltrated in the Pentagon.’ He raised an eyebrow, ‘And Uncle Sam couldn't officially gave asylum to two traitors of the Kremlin. So, we became friends.’

 

No wonder Tasha told him to go to LeBeau _only_ in case of emergencies. Clint took a look at his own passport, ‘Hang on. I'm from Canada?’

 

The Cajun smirked at him. ‘Yes, you are, cher. Though you lived most of your life across the border. You earned a lot of money in inheritance from an estranged uncle from Montreal, and this is why you and Brett decided to travel, so you might want to appear more grateful about being Canadian.’

 

Inheritance from an estranged uncle? Clint didn't know what had been more cliché; LeBeau calling him _cher_ , or the reason of him having money coming straight out of a bad TV trope.

 

‘Francis Bernard. Well, I can do with that.’

 

‘I don't have an after-sales service, so you will.’ He cleared his throat. ‘So, now that I kept my end of the bargain, how about you give me what's rightfully mine?’

 

Clint handed him the rest of the money. LeBeau looked at it, seeming to count the bill, held it in his hands and inspected it. When he seemed satisfied, he smiled warmly at them.

 

‘ _Messieurs_ , it was a pleasure doing business with you. Whenever you see her, give _Natalie_ my best regards.’

 

Steve's jaw clenched, but he stood silent. Clint nodded and smiled, ‘You can count on it.’

 

On their way back at the motel, Steve said nothing. His back stood as straight as an arrow. Clint held his passport tightly in his pocket. He tried not to think about the way the Cajun's eyes shined when they talked about Natalie.

 

*

 

MANHATTAN, NEW YORK – MAY 5, 2015

 

The lights to Bruce's penthouse were already on. He shook his coat off and put him on the couch when he stepped in the living room. He could smell something burning in the kitchen. He took the Glock he had hidden in the love seat.

 

He relaxed slightly when he saw Dick coming out of the kitchen.

 

‘Hey, you.’

 

Dick was grinning, a dish towel in his hands. Bruce felt himself smile.

 

‘Hey yourself.’

 

Dick laughed uncomfortably. ‘That bad, uh?’

 

Bruce looked at him quizzically.

 

‘You're smiling. Means today was shit.’

 

‘Language.’

 

‘Oh, come on. What's going on?’

 

He sighed. ‘What are you doing here?’

 

The younger man snorted. ‘It's nice to see you too, I guess.’ He went back in the kitchen. Bruce followed him silently, and took his phone out when he saw Dick throwing in the garbage whatever he had been trying to cook for dinner. ‘Pizza?’ Bruce nodded and called an Italian restaurant to order their meal.

 

‘I landed at JFK in mid-afternoon. I went to see Alfred.’ His voice broke at the end. ‘Someone has been putting flowers. You?’ Bruce nodded. ‘Anyway. I, uh. I haven't been where she's—’ Dick fell silent. He sat himself on the stool at the kitchen island. Bruce stayed up, on the other side.

 

‘Do you want—’, when he saw the other man standing very still, Dick's shoulder hunched. ‘I'll probably visit her tomorrow. Buy some flowers too.’ He followed the older man out of the kitchen, into his study. He sprawled out on the couch. Bruce sat at his desk and turned on the computer. They fell into a companionable silence. Bruce took out his phone and started typing a number. It was ringing.

 

‘Hang on a second.’ There were noises in the background.

 

Bruce waited. He heard a door clicked shut.

 

‘So, now you know me? Because this morning it sure looked like you didn't—’

 

‘Are you sleeping with Jessica Jones?’

 

He heard a scoff at the other end of the line.

 

‘You truly are an asshole. And that's none of your damn business.’

 

‘It is. It's the FBI's.’

 

Silence.

 

Bruce sighed. ‘Luke.’ At the name, Dick stopped fidgeting and started to become very still. ‘You have to stay away from her. At least for a while.’

 

He waited for Luke to reply.

 

‘Do they know? About me?’

 

‘No.’

 

‘Are they looking for us?’

 

‘Yes.’

 

Bruce heard Luke swore. ‘Do they know about him? Do they know Dick's—’

 

He growled. ‘They'll never _fucking_ know. I'll make sure of it.’

 

‘Okay.’ He listened to Luke sigh tiredly, ‘Okay. I think I can lay low for a while.’

 

Bruce said nothing.

 

‘You take care of him, alright?’

 

‘Always.’ And with that, Bruce ended the call.

 

*

 

They ate their pizza on the kitchen island. Dick did most of the talking, as he always did — told Bruce how France was, how he liked studying in Bordeaux, described to him the architecture of the city, the dojo near his bungalow where he was used to train everyday — while Bruce listened at him, staying silent.

The older man had always been taciturn, could even have been called broody, for as long as Dick could remember. He was used to it; and his silence had always been soothing for him, because Bruce was there, his presence loud in Dick's space.

He used to smile more often though. He hadn't seen him laugh — truly laugh, not one of his fake ones he gave to society, the ones from his asshole persona he gave everyone but those he truly cared about — for years; Bruce probably hadn't laugh ever since she wasn't there anymore.

 

There were things they never talked about. _She_ was one of them. The Fire at their ancient home too, or the day Bruce found Alfred laying on the kitchen floor and they drove him to the E.R. where he never came out of, or even the Batman — they were subjects to never breach. Ever since the Fire, ever since she wasn't there, Bruce's silences were the only thing left for Dick that could soothe him or calm his mind whenever he felt angry or helpless.

 

Among the things they never talked about was the night Bruce carried home a bruised and battered Dick in his arms. It had been the night they met Luke. He could remember Bruce yelling at him, like he never did before, to ask Dick to promise him that he would never do that again, that it only lead to pain and death. _Putting on a mask will only bring you sorrow, kitten_. Bruce had kept saying it again and again. Luke had been the one who found him, who protected him against three of the Roxxon's men who was beating him senseless — he'd been following mysterious containers transported by unmarked vehicles in the dead of the night for three weeks, and that night he finally put a name on the receiver. They threw acid at the man helping him. Dick remembered all of their faces when they realized Luke was unharmed.

He spent weeks with a limp. He promised Bruce he would never try to be a vigilante again. He never resigned himself to throw his mask and costume away, though. Despite what happened, Dick also remembered the time when he rescued a woman at the hands of men with bad attentions, or the one where he stopped a young man — the guy was pointing a gun at a rich couple asking for their money — from ruining his life. He remembered the faces of people he helped.

 

_Who are you?_

 

_I'm Nightwing_.

 

Though tonight he was only Dick. Tonight he was spending time home, with his only family.

 

Half sprawled on the couch in the living room looking at some wildlife documentary, his head hanging on Bruce's shoulder, he closed his eyes and fell asleep, trying not to think about how he missed Alfred and Selina.

 

*

 

_I'm dreaming._

 

_You've always been one for platitudes, my love. How come you know?_

 

_Because you're here._

 

_I'm always here, tiger._

 

_Not anymore._

 

A soft laugh.

 

_Do you miss me?_

 

_You have no idea._

 

_Does he?_

 

_So much. You'd be so proud of him. You should see him now. How much he's grown._

 

A shaky breath _._

 

_I've always been proud of him. I miss my kitten, I miss seing him smile at me, having him tucked in my arms..._

_Bruce. Do you love me?_

 

_Always._

 

_Then why? Why did you leave me?_

 

_I—_

 

_Why did you leave me, Bruce? Couldn't you hear me screaming?_

 

_Dick was suffocating, I had to save him._

 

_Couldn't you hear me, baby? Couldn't hear me calling you?_

 

_Couldn't you hear me burning, Bruce?_

 

Bruce opened his eyes and jerked his head upward. The TV was still on. Dick was on his lap, fast asleep. His vision swarmed, and his hands were shaking badly. He felt like puking, seeing everything blurry for a while. Breathing seemed impossible. He could hear his fast-paced heartbeats in his throat.

 

Today was Tuesday, the date was May the fifth, in the year of 2015 and he was in his flat in New York.

Today was Tuesday, the date was May the fifth, in the year of 2015 and he was in his flat in New York.

Today was Tuesday, the date was May the fifth, in the year of 2015 and he was in his flat in New York.

 

He repeated it, again and again. He didn't know for how long. He stayed silent, listening to Dick's breathing, a hand stroking the boy's hair.

 

 

 


	4. Playa

DÉNIA, PROVINCIA DE ALICANTE, SPAIN – MAY 4, 2015

 

They crashed on top of a hill, Clark's vision blurring at the effort — which was not supposed to happen, ever. The other man rolled for a couple of foot on the ground, and somersaulted, adopting a fighting stance. He produced a knife from God-knows-where, and started barking at Clark in what he thought could be Russian.

Clark got up, swaying a little.

 

‘I don't— I don't understand Russian.’

 

At that, the other man stood still. He tipped his head in a reptilian fashion, the knife still tight in his fist.

 

‘I— My name is Clark Kent. I don't want to hurt you.’ He tried to make a placating gesture with his hands, as if approaching something feral.

The man's eyes were quickly moving, from his face, his hands, and the distance between them.

 

‘I really don't want to hurt you.’ The man hadn't moved, ‘I come from a small town in Kansas, named Smallville. What about you? What's your name? I know you're American — your accent told me, but I don't know who you are.’

 

The man said nothing. Clark saw light caught in his metallic arm. He tried to avoid his gaze.

They crashed on top of hill with more rocks than green. There was a goat a couple of feet away from them.

 

‘Listen,’ he sighed irritated, ‘You don't want to talk to me — that's fine. But please stop pointing a knife at me, it's unnerving.’ The knife stayed unmoved. ‘Alright, as you want. I don't really know if it was nice to meet you, and I still don't understand what the heck happened down there.’ Clark threw his arms in the air and huffed.

 

When he turned around and started walking, mumbling along the lines of _It's not like I understand what the heck happened at all either_ , he heard the other man clear his throat.

 

‘I'm — James?’

 

In the same way he unconsciously did inflections on his words earlier, Clark could hear the question mark at the end. He turned back and smiled at him. James' blue eyes seemed uncertain, the knife half way down, his whole posture less menacing. He walked slowly toward him, raising his right hand to shake, and when he noticed James' fists tightening again, he stared at him calmly, approaching slower to avoid startling the other man.

 

‘Well James,’ the other man took his right hand on his own but didn't seem to shake it, ‘I'm Clark. Nice to meet you.’ When he shook their hands, James made an abort noise in his throat, and looked at him questioningly. He just kept smiling at him, and grinned when he saw a ghost of a smile on the other's face.

 

When he let go of James' hand, the other man kept staring at his chest. Though Clark has never been one to fidget, the hard stare made him uncomfortable.

 

James was frowning. ‘What are you?’

 

Clark huffed, ‘What— what do you mean _what_ I am, well I'm—’, he felt the other man's gloved finger on his chest and realized he actually _felt_ the leather on his own skin. Oh, dang it, he forgot about his ruined clothes, which were more or less ripped from their crash landing.

 

The bullet holes were still unmistakable though.

 

‘Are you,’ James frowned, as if searching for the right words, ‘are you enhanced?’

 

‘Uh—’, well, better be whatever that is than admitting to be an alien, ‘Maybe?’

 

The other man didn't seem to appreciate his answer. Clark was getting restless. ‘Who's your handler?’

 

‘Wh— wait hang on a second, first you ask me _what_ am I and now if I have a handler? I'm not a dog, you know.’

 

James was acting as if Clark was the one being weird.

 

‘But you're not a civilian.’ It wasn't question. ‘And you're not with **them**.’

 

‘Are you with the Man on the Bridge?’

 

O-kay. Clark's brows went up to his hairline. So, James was American, and a murderer who had serious issues with some armed people Clark didn't know _and_ who also liked talking in cryptic sentences.

 

Clark was hoping very hard that James was an exception and that every people in this universe weren't all _this_ weird.

 

‘The, the man on the bridge. Uh...’

 

Like Clark knew every men who decided to be on some bridge.

 

James appeared to reckon something. ‘The Captain. Captain Steve Rogers.’

 

Captain? The name seemed familiar, yet Clark couldn't exactly pinpoint why. Did he think this Captain Rogers was his handler? Oh! Which meant—

 

‘I'm not military, James. I promise you, I'm a civilian.’

 

‘No you're not.’

 

Well, he didn't expect _that_ to be an answer. His mouth twisted. He couldn't exactly say he was normal either, not with proof he wasn't right on his unblemished chest. James nodded, though Clark said nothing.

 

‘You are going to be helpful. What are your specificities? What are you—’

 

Clark lifted his eyes up. ‘Still not a dog, James.’

 

‘You are enhanced. So you are an asset.’

 

He raised an eyebrow, ‘An asset? Uh, and are you—’

 

‘Да. If you are not, then why are you still here?’

 

Huh. Good question. Honestly? Clark didn't know. Maybe it was because the entire situation felt too weird for him; and letting himself flow was easy, easier than thinking about everything else. When James huffed and started walking away, Clark followed him, calling him until the man turned back and glared at him. ‘What?’ he snapped.

 

‘I'm pretty sure you don't even know where you're going, cause it looks like there's nothing here but a goat.’

 

James started to sneer at him in Russian. Clark's eyebrows raised to his hairline and he left his hands up. ‘Hey, I'm just saying. And by the way — I'm still not speaking Russian.’ After that, James stayed silent.

 

Clark sighed and felt tired all of a sudden. ‘Look, I'm kind of lost, and I don't have anything else to wear, because my clothes were in the bar. I just— I won't lie to you, you're a bit weird, but you're the first American I encounter here, and if we could help us out, it could be great. I don't know what kind of waters you're in, and it sure looks like it's bad, but...’ James was looking at him like he had grown another head. ‘I'm all alone here, okay?’

 

The other man's shoulders loosened a bit, but it seemed a bit intentional.

 

‘Is it a problem?’

 

‘What is?’

 

‘Bein' alone,’ James seemed genuine in his line of questioning. Clark didn't know how to respond and once again he raised an eyebrow.

 

‘Honestly, I don't know.’

 

The other man nodded. ‘Then find an answer. When you do, you will share it.’ With that, he made a hand gesture, telling Clark to follow him. The latter said nothing and started walking besides him.

 

*

 

MADRID, COMMUNIDAD DE MADRID, SPAIN, MAY 8 2015

 

Thor deposited Natasha in Gibraltar. When they landed, he had no time, and bid her farewell by hugging her. It seemed to be a habit. She would never admit it, but she actually liked it.

She had spent three days trying to get any informations about something unexpected that could have happened the Fourth. She chased ghosts, and more than once had been too close to get herself caught than she would've liked. She found herself in Madrid on her third day in Spain, asking here and there about an old acquaintance of her.

When she was SHIELD, her and Clint had had a few assignments for the Index: one of them was a local vigilante known as El Águila, who took justice in his own hands in his neighborhood. They went because SHIELD heard rumors about a sword who magically housed an electric blaster and a man who seemed to be the only one capable of using it. _So we're hunting a masked King of Avalon and his mighty Excalibur_ had said Clint when Phil gave them the assignment. She felt herself smile remembering Phil's face — as inexpressive as ever — when Clint barked his joke.

Phil. She knew he was alive. She knew it, because she might have trusted Nick, but she knew the former Director was a man full of secrets — and Phil being alive surely was one of them, because she knew when Fury lied to her. Phil was alive. She knew it.

She just would've liked him to give her a sign, anything. She tried to never dwell too much on it. Phil must have had his reasons for not reaching her out.

Anyway, it wasn't the time to think about Phil. She had to find where El Águila lived these days.

 

*

 

DÉNIA, PROVINCIA DE ALICANTE, SPAIN – MAY 10, 2015

 

Clark had a fever.

 

It never happened to him before — the sense of hotness, the shivers, the sheer feeling of cold seeping into his bones, the delirious state, the constant vibrations running in his body — and he was more than grateful for that.

 

His Ma and Pa always told people he had a very good immune system; even when everyone at his school caught the flu, Clark stayed healthy. It was part of his life, as much as being able to hear everyone's heartbeat.

 

Six days in this darn universe, and Clark couldn't even decipher what James was telling him.

 

James who, as it turned out, had stuck close to him; Clark would have thought that at the first signs of weakness coming from him, the metal armed man would have left him alone. Yet, he found them a place to stay; which as it turned out, was a bungalow owned by an English couple who seemed to come in here only in Summer — and Clark put every photographs down, because every time he looked at them, he felt sick. Even so, James brought him medicine, Clark didn't know where he got them, but he was not in a good enough state to question it. He fed him, gave him water and even fresh towels coming from God-knows-where to keep him cool. James didn't talk much, most of the time favoring listening to Clark rumble, sometimes gibberish, and sometimes not — but it surely felt like it to him. After all, James didn't know who Superman was, where was Metropolis or why Lois seemed to be the one who would have known what to do.

 

The first day, when they were getting back in town, Clark fainted.

The second day, he started to puke. A lot.

On the third day, he couldn't stay up for more than a couple of minutes.

When the Sun rose on the fourth day, Clark realized his skin felt like burning when he tried to get some sun.

The fever started on the fifth day. During the night, he had been delirious, had seen Zod looming over him, saying words he couldn't understand. When he had tried to catch Zod's hand, he gripped tight James' metal arm and started yelling, his whole body convulsing and a feeling like his blood was vibrating overcoming him. His palm had been burned where he had gripped the other man.

 

James was frowning. He seemed to do it a lot, and Clark didn't know if it was a bad habit of him, or because he was with Clark.

 

‘Your state is getting worse.’

 

Clark laughed, or more coughed at what James said. He didn't need to be clairvoyant to see it; he _felt_ worse.

 

‘You need to get checked into medical.’

 

He was too tired to answer him. He was too tired to even keep his eyes open.

 

*

MADRID, COMUNIDAD DE MADRID, SPAIN, MAY 8 2015

 

‘I thought SHIELD didn't exist any more.’

 

Natasha smiled. El Águila, living and breathing, stood in front of her, casually laying on a wall. She heard about a man keeping criminals out of his neighborhood, and rumors said if any of them tried to trespass, they were marked by a scar on their right cheek, and were found talking about lightnings from God, and electricity crippling them to their core. She knew it was him; they could not have been anyone else than Alejandro Montoya.

 

‘It doesn't.’

 

Alejandro grinned, and kissed her on the cheek. ‘It is a pleasure to see you again, Natalia.’

 

When Clint and her found him, Alejandro had been wearing a domino mask, dressed like a swashbuckler and actually interrogating three scared men who turned out to be drug dealers. His sword was shining with electric currents swirling around it, and the scene looked taken right out of a modern day _Zorro_. They found out later that what had to be put in the Index was not the sword, but the man himself: Alejandro was a Gifted. His gift manifested while he was still a teenager — the power of blasting electrostatic charges — but he kept it hidden for a while. When his whole neighborhood started to decay, he felt the need to bring justice himself.

 

He made it clear that he would meant SHIELD no trouble. Well, being a vigilante was, but SHIELD didn't have to know the whole story, or as Clint had so nicely put it, _we can't stop him Tasha, he's just too good for us to taint him_. They even stayed a bit to help him. It had been good times for her.

 

‘It's very nice in here. It has changed a lot.’

 

Alejandro was practically bouncing on his feet. ‘In a good way, I hope?’

 

Natasha laughed softly. ‘Yes. Yes, it has.’

 

His hands found place on her arms.

 

‘Come, I need you to see something. And then we will talk, and make up for all the lost time.’

 

His happiness was seeping from every pore of his skin. Natasha was warmed by it.

 

*

 

He brought her to a café hidden in between pedestrians streets-only, that looked mostly packed with locals, children playing in the open-roofed center where a fountain stood. The walls were a warm yellow, and the place decorated in an Arabian decor, the only source of light coming from the opened ceiling. In the background, there were stairs leading to what she could guess were other rooms. Natasha's eyes were shining.

 

‘It's beautiful.’

 

Alejandro nodded enthusiastically. ‘I know, right? It is mine. A year after you and Clint came, I built this.’ A little girl ran towards him and lashed herself on his legs. He laughed and took her in his arms. ‘This is my niece, Laura. Oye, dame un besito cariña.’ The little girl giggled and gave him a kiss on his left cheek. She looked quizzically at Natasha.

 

The red-head smiled warmly. ‘Hola, guapa.’

 

Laura hid her face in Alejandro's neck. When she heard a woman calling her in the background, he let her down and she ran toward the voice. The man gestured at Natasha to follow him to a table with pillows on the floor in a corner, where no one seemed to go.

 

‘She is always a bit shy with strangers.’

 

Natasha sat and looked at the children playing.

 

‘I heard what happened in America. Natalia, if you need a place to stay, you are welcome here, for as long as you want.’

 

She kept her face even, but was shocked at the proposition. She never thought someone would welcome her in their home, or at least no one who wasn't an Avenger. Alejandro seemed to understand it.

 

‘It would be my pleasure, truly. After all, it seems only fair for Jaime to put a face on the name.’

 

Natasha frowned.

 

‘Jaime?’

 

‘My husband.’ Alejandro's eyes softened. She did catch glimpses of his alliance when she spotted him. She just didn't want to intrude. ‘We met right before I started renovating here.’

 

‘I'm happy for you.’

 

‘He saved me.’ His eyes were staring at his ring, ‘When they forbid us to put on masks, nobody talked here. But they all knew I couldn't do it any more. So I started getting depressed.’ He cleared his throat. ‘He found me, showed me this place, and even if we didn't know each other very well, he just said “let's make this the best bar in the neighborhood.” And we did.’

 

A man brought them a teapot full of homemade Maghrebi mint tea that they hadn't ordered. Alejandro thanked him, and started serving Natasha a cup.

 

‘Anyway,’ he sipped at his own cup, ‘I can see you are not here looking for a place to stay. Am I wrong?’

 

She smiled ruefully. The tea was fantastic. Banner would have probably loved it.

 

‘I'm not. I came looking for you because I need informations that you might have.’

 

He raised his eyebrows, ‘Do tell. Is it about what happened four days ago?’

 

This time, it was Natasha whose eyebrows raised.

 

‘What happened?’

 

Alejandro hummed. ‘I do not know, but I know someone who does. He is not here, though, but I know where he will be tonight.’

 

‘Tonight?’

 

Natasha tried not to think about Thor, who was probably still waiting news from her. She already lost three days. She tried to look at the sky, and realized they were in the end of the afternoon; not much time left to wait then.

 

*

 

DÉNIA, PROVINCIA DE ALICANTE, SPAIN – MAY 10, 2015

 

‘How fascinating.’

 

There was someone in the house. It wasn't James. Clark couldn't see it all clear, but he knew this man couldn't be James. He tried to turn his head towards where the sounds came from, but only gasped when he realized he couldn't stop himself from shaking.

 

‘His whole body is _humming_. It's like it's calling something.’

 

Clark thought there were two of them. One approached him, while the other stood at a safer distance.

 

A woman talked. ‘Could you sense irradiation? Because he's losing his hair and doesn't look pretty good.’

 

The man crouched next to him, ‘No. I'm sure It's not that though — I can feel his blood, I can feel everything. It's _vibrating_.’

 

Clark tried to look at him. His vision was too blurry. The only thing he could noticed was the man's slight accent, probably German.

 

‘What do you mean vibrating? I thought you could only sense metal.’

 

‘And you would be right in thinking so,’ the man's hand was going from his face to belly but not close enough to touch him, ‘which is why it's fascinating.’ The man's hand froze suddenly. ‘And he's not the only one fascinating here.’

 

The man got up and went away from him. Clark couldn't see where.

 

‘There's someone else nearby. And they have metal, a whole lot of it.’

 

Clark heard someone loading a gun.

 

‘What do you mean?’

 

‘An arm. An arm entirely made of alloy.’ The woman talked in Russian. Considering the amount of time Clark heard those words from James, she was probably swearing.

 

‘We need to go.’ With those words, Clark heard the woman walking.

 

‘No, wait, you don't understand! He's responding to it!’

 

While saying that, the man got closer to Clark. The woman stopped on her tracks.

 

‘Responding to what? I thought he _was_ it.’

 

‘The arm.’ For an instant, Clark could see the man's eyes; an icy blue with flecks of green, pupils wide while staring at him. ‘I've never seen this before. This man is humming with the Vibranium. And I think it's — I think it's killing him.’

 

*

 

FIVE HOURS AGO

 

JÁVEA, PROVINCIA DE ALICANTE, SPAIN - MAY 10, 2015

 

‘We're close. I can feel it.’

 

Two days ago, Alejandro introduced her to a whole world she didn't know about. His café, even more than being a safe haven for the locals, had also been a refuge for Gifted and vigilantes.

 

_When SHIELD fell, we all feared of a witch-hunt. Some of us thought they would've been discovered, yet we still felt safe. It's like we have a guardian angel_.

 

Or Tony Stark on their side. But Natasha would never admit it.

One of the Gifted who sought out refuge at Alejandro's had talked to him about something strange happening four days before, and this was how Natasha met Erik.

Erik had been gifted — or enhanced, Natasha wasn't sure — of controlling magnetic fields — if his powers brought something else, Erik was unaware of it; and as far she knew, he was unknown to SHIELD, and very secret about his past. She could understand that.

After all, she was secret about her past too. He heard about Águila's safe haven when travelling throughout Europe a couple of months ago. He had already been there, but this time, he arrived from the United States the night Natasha found Alejandro.

He told her what he said to Alejandro before on the phone; something happened four days ago, something that shook him to his core, and ever since, he felt attracted to it, although he couldn't for the life of him explain why.

_It's calling me, like a magnet. I don't know what happened, but I can hear the Earth shaking ever since, like a soft murmur_. Natasha had heard stranger things in her life.

 

‘Are you sure?’

 

‘Yes. I know we've been walking for a while and that I seem a bit lost, but I'm telling you I'm sure we're close.’

 

‘Okay.’

 

Erik had needed another day to focus on the feeling to exactly pinpoint where was the source of it. Natasha knew that wherever they would find it, she would find why Asgardians couldn't come here.

They were on top of a small mountain, standing next to a lighthouse which was a 120 meters over the sea level. Erik's bleached hair were waving with the wind. His eyes were close, and she was sure he didn't notice how his palm had opened up to the air. The calm of his face was a good addition to the sight. Natasha stared at the sea in front of her. On her right was the Bay of Xàbia, and on her left, Dénia, a resort town. The burner she got from Alejandro beeped.

 

‘Águila tells me there's been a slaughter in a nearby snack bar in Dénia. Local authorities don't know what happened. It was six days ago.’

 

At her words, Erik opened her eyes and frowned at her. ‘You think it has something to do with this?’ He waved a hand in front of him, as if doing this would explain what he was talking about.

 

Natasha sighed. ‘I don't know. The way I see it, this place doesn't have abundant criminal activities, so maybe, yes.’

 

Erik nodded. She stared at his eyes again. She thought they were green sometimes, then blue, but when he was staring towards the Sun, they almost looked grey. Erik avoided her gaze, as he often tended to do. The man wasn't a fan of eye contact.

 

They made their way towards Dénia. Neither of them talked. They were, after all, in this together only because of circumstances; they were not friends nor partners nor colleagues. They just happened to go to the same place at the same time; Natasha needed directions, and Erik? Well, she didn't really know. The man was not very talkative. He didn't need her for protection — she hadn't seen him in a fight, but there was something about him that told her he could handle one easily — nor did he need her for directions. It unnerved her, the not knowing part. She wasn't used to it, not in this way.

 

Before they even reached the town center, Erik started going to the marina.

 

‘There's— I think we need to go this way.’

 

After walking quickly into the marina for a while, he stopped dead in his tracks, right in the middle of the road. Natasha approached him and raised an eyebrow. Erik was frowning slightly.

 

‘I honestly don't know how to explain it. It's there — I can feel it — but it's... fading. I think it's been there for a while, but it isn't any more.’

 

Natasha saw an old man smoking a cigarette sitting on a chair near them. She talked with him for a while, and then came back where Erik was standing.

 

‘What did you ask him?’

 

‘If anything weird happened in the area,’ she smiled a bit, ‘apart from a naked man woken up by the police, nothing at the marina.’

 

‘A naked man?’

 

She hummed. ‘And right where you're standing. He called the police when he saw him. It happened on Monday morning.’

 

Erik's eyes widened. ‘So six days ago.’

 

‘Exactly. But that's not all.’ At that, Erik tilted his head on the side, frowning, ‘A couple of hours later after the incident, a couple of people came in here. Some looked military, other like scientists.’

 

‘And that man told you all of this?’

 

‘He lives and works here. He knows what happens in his home. But that's not what matters here. Erik,’ she sighed, ‘if other people came here, that means you're not the only one who had been able to feel It. Which means we might enter in dangerous territories.’

 

*

 

DÉNIA, PROVINCIA DE ALICANTE – MAY 10, 2015

 

‘I'm serious. The Vibranium — It's killing him.’ Erik's eyes seemed lost in the other's face. It almost looked like he actually knew the other man. Natasha thought he probably felt the other dying.

 

They tried accessing the snack bar where the killing happened, but were met with a barricade of police officers and journalists. In the end, it didn't matter, Erik had kept walking on the shore, until he had actually trespassed in one of the property that had their small gardens exit on the beach. ‘It's here!’ He started running, opening the door and going into the house, and before Natasha knew what happened, she found Erik in a living room where all furnitures had been pushed on the corners, standing at the doorstep, staring at a man laying on a makeshift bed. The man looked feverish, his face pale and he was even losing strands of hair. If she hadn't know better, she thought he had radiation poisoning. Natasha tried not to focus too much on it; what was urgent at the moment was the fact that the Winter Soldier could be here at any moment.

 

‘Erik, we need to go. If the person you are talking about is who I think it is, then we need to go. Now.’

 

But Erik wasn't listening to her. He was staring at the other, his hand hovering slightly on the other's forehead.

 

‘He's dying. I can feel it. We can't let him here, the vibranium is going to kill him. Can't you see? That's it, it's him.’ Erik was staring at the sick man a pained expression on his face, ‘I felt my whole world change and vibrate one night, I've been obsessed by it, and now that I found the reason — you want me to run away?’

 

Gun still in hand, Natasha raised the other one, palm opened towards Erik, approaching him slightly.

 

‘You don't know who we are talking about here, Erik. If Barnes is coming, we _cannot_ stay.’

 

‘I won't let him die. Go. I'm staying.’

 

Natasha stared at him. Erik smiled at her, so briefly she wasn't sure it had been here in the first place, and nodded. And because of it, Natasha froze in place. She was going to get out without Erik, but seeing him tending at the other, she just stood there. His hand was still hovering at the other's forehead.

 

‘Hey,’ he probably didn't realize he was speaking in soft tones, ‘I think I can alleviate your pain. Let me try?’

 

The man laying on the makeshift bed stared at him, and then nodded with what looked like a huge amount of pain. Erik closed his eyes and stood still, but Natasha realized he was doing something, since the other man was gasping. He started breathing heavily, as if he had been suffocating before, and the more the glaze in his eyes seemed to disappear, the more Erik was frowning, in what Natasha thought was pain. She tried to stop him.

 

‘Erik —’

 

He shook his head violently. ‘Just a little bit more.’

 

A bit turned out to take longer than expected, but Natasha stayed silent nonetheless. The only sounds in the room were gasps coming from the man in the makeshift bed.

 

Suddenly, she heard him and Erik cry, and before she could react, a shock wave coming from where Erik's hand and the man were blasted through the room and sent Natasha into a wall, along with other objects scattered across the room. She let her gun slipped at the shock, and when she took it in her hand, she saw Erik half laying unconscious on the floor, his back at some corner. She started pointing at the man now sitting on the makeshift bed, when she felt the distinct shape of the front side of a barrel on her left temple. She didn't need to look at it to know who was holding it.

 

‘Put it down. Surrender.’

 

She swallowed. Natasha rarely let herself be surprised, and she even more rarely allowed herself to panic.

 

With the Winter Soldier pointing a gun at her, Natasha let herself panic silently.

 

**Author's Note:**

> For the non-English parts, here some translations!
> 
> Joyeux Anniversaire, les Vengeurs: Happy birthday to you, Avengers. (but it can also be read as Happy Anniversary in French)
> 
> Je recherche Corinne. Vous l'auriez pas vu?: I'm looking for Corinne. Have you seen her?
> 
> Ouais, c'est qui?: Who're you?
> 
> M'man = Maman = Mom
> 
> Tata: Aunt
> 
> Mon cœur = Honey, sweetie; literally 'my heart'


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